The Fall and Rise of Western Civilization
by chernobyl907
Summary: Nora Sinclair wasn't strong enough for this changed world. It sent her reeling, desperately seeking a safe port from the wild storm that raged inside of her. She found that anchorage in the solid dependability and unwavering support of a veteran Brotherhood of Steel Paladin named Danse. He became her friend. He became her reason for living. He was her knight in shining power armor.
1. Chapter 1

"I'm not surprised Maxson sent you. He never liked to do the dirty work himself." Danse looked away, but not before she glimpsed the despair that marked his face. Marked his soul. The soul he now likely thought he didn't have.

"I... wish he _hadn't_ sent you." Danse's voice was quiet and resigned.

He couldn't even bring himself to look at _her_ , his constant companion for the last six months. His head was bowed and it made Nora's heart shatter for the anguish he must be feeling. Even after all they'd been through - the combat, the losses, the blood they'd lost - he had always unflaggingly kept his head up and back straight.

Her throat felt like it was full of crushed gravel, making speech difficult. "No. Don't say that. I'm glad. If he'd sent anyone else… Christ, Danse."

Nora became aware she was panting through clenched teeth. The crushing weight of the terror she'd had for his safety was making sweat trickle down her back and between her breasts, compounded in part by the hell-bent for leather pace she'd set to get to him.

To get to him _first_. Before any other Brotherhood soldier who would only be there for the coup. It had taken every fiber of her being to walk away from the command deck calmly after receiving her orders, when all she wanted to do was scream her fury and defiance and heartbreak in the face of the too young, too cruel Elder. As soon as Haylen - God _bless_ that woman - had furtively taken her aside, she knew there was a chance she could yet save her Paladin.

The writhing nausea and panic she felt were just barely under control. She shook her head wildly to try to shake away the possibility of the very real and very horrible consequences.

 _If Maxson had sent anyone else, Danse would be dead already. He'd be dead and I'd be standing over his corpse and he'd be gone and I'd be alone and he'd be dead he'd be dead he'd be dead-_

 _"_ I need to touch you," she blurted. Danse frowned and hesitated, but cautiously extended arm towards her, palm down. Like he was _contagious._ It was as close as he'd let her get right now. She'd have to accept whatever piece of him she could get to prove to herself that he wasn't already a ghost. It wasn't enough, wasn't nearly enough for the part of her that wanted to hold him close and swallow him whole and protect him, keep him deep inside her. Forever and ever, amen.

 _She wasn't too late, was she? Had she run fast enough and hard enough? She'd set a punishing pace to reach him. Get to him_ first _._

No, he was real, not spectral and noncorporeal as she had feared. Danse's hand was solid and warm and callused under fingers that were probably clenched too tightly for comfort around his, were probably uncomfortably cold and clammy against the vital warmth of him. He was real, he was alive, and she had gotten to her Paladin in time.

 _Thank you thank you thankyouthankyou-_

Nora shook her head to try to clear it of dazed shock. She needed all cylinders firing right now. "I don't understand what's going on, Danse. Is it… true?"

Abruptly, he withdrew his hand from hers and turned to face the crumbling concrete wall, leaving her bereft at the sudden absence of his touch and staring at his wide back helplessly. She could _taste_ the self-loathing in the air. And he still hadn't made eye contact with her…

"Believe me, this is more of a shock to me than it is to you. I didn't know. Until Quinlan got that list decoded, I thought synths were the enemy. I never expected to hear that I was one of them. If it wasn't for Haylen, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

He flexed his powerful shoulders and looked heavenward. For guidance, for comfort, for patience - she didn't know. God, he was hurting so much. Seeing his pain plunged a corresponding barbed hook deep in her heart.

Danse whirled to face her suddenly. His hands were clenched in fists at his sides and his red-rimmed eyes fell on her accusingly. "So what are your orders? Does Maxson even want me alive?"

It was her turn to avoid eye contact; her focus dropped to his boots. To have to deliver the news that the man he called friend ordered her there to execute him...

"No. He sent me here to…" she trailed off miserably.

Nora was trembling hard enough she had to wrap her arms around her ribs to keep them from rattling like a caricature from the black and white cartoons of her childhood. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

But she bravely lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eye because the selfless, courageous, extraordinary man he was deserved no less. Danse was her friend and she needed to make it plainly-without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt clear to him that she - along with Haylen - still had his back, even if nobody else fucking did.

"Danse, I'm… truly sorry. He sent me here to kill you. Haylen - god, I'm gonna kiss that woman. Maxson told me to start with Quinlan. He'd pulled all of your field reports to pinpoint the locations you'd visited to have me start eliminating them one by one. I planned on stalling to buy you some time, then Haylen charged in, hopping mad like only a redhead can get. She pulled me down to one of the lower decks and gave me these coordinates. I burned through two whole fusion cores to get to you."

Warily, she reached a hand out to touch his arm, but he twitched back just out of reach.

Nora curled those fingers into a fist and slammed it into her thigh in frustration. "He's batshit _crazy_ if he thinks I'm gonna carry those orders out. There has to be a way out. Help me think, Danse. Tell me what to do." She wasn't too proud to beg, not for him and not under these desperate circumstances.

He started prowling back and forth - Bagheera in uniform. Unhappily, she eyed him, waiting for him to spit out whatever it was he was thinking. He had to have some kind of plan. He _always_ did.

After a few minutes, his edgy movements slowed. He came to a halt in front of her and cleared his throat as he often did when he had an uncomfortable subject to breach.

"Look, I'm not blind to the fact that we're good friends and this must be difficult for you. I sincerely wish Maxson had sent someone else." His heavy brows knit together sorrowfully.

The pacing began again. His rich baritone voice snapped out and lashed at her, as whip-sharp and bitter as she'd ever heard him, even as a new recruit constantly challenging his authority over her.

"But that doesn't change a thing. I'm a synth, which means I need to be destroyed."

 _No. I won't._

"If you disobey your orders, you're not only betraying Maxson, you're betraying the Brotherhood of Steel and everything it stands for."

 _I don't care._

"Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions, they need to be controlled. Technology that's run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction. I need to be the example, not the exception."

She was once again the disobedient Initiate who dug her heels in over a disagreeable order, he the veteran Paladin coolly demanding corrective action. For the greater good of the Brotherhood, whatever that meant.

Yet… she wasn't. This man was her friend now, unlike then. He was a man trying not to let the overwhelming burden of this newly discovered, crushing knowledge destroy him. He was trying to keep the few remaining shreds of dignity he had intact. She would honor his intent, but not the request.

She raised her head high and quietly countered, "No. Synth or not, you're still yourself. You're still the Danse that I respect and trust. I know you too well to believe otherwise."

He looked at her incredulously, ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Sinclair, listen to me. Everything I am is a lie. I simply should not _exist_."

She started to wither again under the force of his glare then took a deep breath to center herself. No. This wasn't it. This wasn't the way it would end. Not if she had anything to say about it. A curl of anger came to life in her chest, and it burned _brightly_. She would flay Maxson _alive_ for mandating this assassination.

"If you really feel that way, why did you run in the first place?" she demanded.

"The moment I learned the truth, I knew my life was in danger. I'm a soldier, so self-preservation kicked in… I needed to regroup and assess the situation."

It was his turn for uncertainty. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

"Once I got here, and had some time to think… I realized I'd just made everything worse. I should have stayed on the Prydwen and accepted the inevitable. Like I said, I need to be the example, not the exception."

 _Had she gotten back to the airport only to witness his public execution, she would have burned it all down. Destroyed every last one of them, saving Maxson for last._

Focus.

"Danse, please. Listen to me. Listen to _yourself_!" she begged. "The empathy that you're showing me… it's a _human_ emotion."

A fatalistic acceptance spread across his face and seeped into his voice. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I've made my decision. I'm ready to accept the consequences of my true identity. Maxson's ordered you to execute me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stand in your way."

He watched her with hooded eyes, waiting for her to… what? Accept what he was asking her to do? Be a good little Knight and listen to your Elder, for he knows best?

Fuck. That.

"No. I won't do it, Danse. I'll burn the _Prydwen_ out of the sky before I murder you," she hissed. She advanced on him angrily until she stood toe to toe with him. There'd been a lot of water under the bridge since she'd last faced him down like this. Needs must when the devil drives.

Coldly she continued, ignoring the way he flinched back at the force of her rancor. "If that's what it takes to keep you in one piece, then so be it. Fuck the Brotherhood and _fuck_ Maxson's orders. Fuck this listening post and fuck me if I'm touching a hair on your damn head. I _might_ punch you for being so goddamn stupid though."

He looked astonished. As if he couldn't believe-

"I can't believe you'd risk your life just to keep me alive. Why would you _do_ that for me?" he asked plaintively.

"Because I _care_ about you. You _know_ that, you asshole. How could you even ask me that question? I'm here to fight for you, not help you commit assisted suicide." She threw her arms wide with exasperation, barely missing clipping his chin.

"I've already lost my family, I don't want to lose my friend." Nora glared up at him and poked him in the chest. Hard. "That means you, if you need me to fucking spell it out for you. What the crap, Danse?"

Danse frowned thoughtfully and absently rubbed his chest. "You're right. How could I have been so blind? I should consider how my death might affect the people who care about me. People like you and Haylen. You're right and I'm sorry."

He smiled at her, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps now that you've opened my eyes, I can consider my next move."

 **"** _Our_ next move. I'm in this with you." Through thick and thin and fog and flood and dead of night. Through radioactive lava and deathclaw lairs and the ghosts of her past.

"Here. Take my holotags. Use them to prove that your mission was successful or Maxson will just send someone else to hunt me down."

 _Maybe she should just flip the tables and execute Maxson instead._

Danse unbuckled the tab at the neck of his uniform and unzipped it just far enough to tug the chain carrying his holotags out. He had to jerk them free where they snagged on his collar. For a brief moment, he looked down at the glowing blue and silver that represented his whole life, and then thrust them at her.

Nora took the chain from his hand and curled her fingers around the surprisingly heavy metal tags. They were still warm from his body heat. She'd wear them herself; the tags dropped down and settled over her breastbone with a metallic _clink._ She'd dutifully show them to Maxson, but she'd keep them afterwards. Danse might want them back someday.

"Okay. We need to get you out of here. The Castle is too close to the airport, but-"

"Nora." Danse gripped her upper arms in his hands and squeezed tightly. He opened his mouth as if to continue speaking, then hesitated. No. No. Nora shook her head in vehement rejection. She didn't want to see this heavy melancholy in his eyes. It could only mean one thing.

 _No. God, no. Please._

Slowly, horribly, he spoke, "Listen to me, Nora. You need to continue your fight against the Institute without me. I have my own path to follow now. The only clear choice is for me to leave the Commonwealth. The sooner I make for the border, the sooner I put this behind me."

He voiced the very thought she'd been trying to shove out of her head. He was right. He was right, and it was eating at her like acid. No matter which direction she turned, she was destined to lose him anyway. She bit her cheek until she tasted fresh blood to tamp down the raw, excruciating scream of denial that threatened to tear out of her throat.

No. She'd delay that moment of separation for as long as she could. Frantically, she said, "We'll head to Sanctuary. You'll need supplies, weapons, caps-"

He shook his head sharply. "Negative. Showing up in a Minutemen settlement would immediately make them a target, not only from the Institute but from the Brotherhood as well. I won't put innocent people in danger."

She dug her fingers into his forearms. "You forget - I'm not just your Knight. I am General of the Minutemen. Maxson wouldn't dare," she spat.

Danse scowled and leaned into her face. "He could and he would, if he felt the retaliation was warranted. He wouldn't hesitate to level Sanctuary as a warning to any who dared cross him. Do you honestly believe the Minutemen would survive a war with the Brotherhood?"

Stubbornly, she replied. "Yes. I do. We're strong enough now. I'll go toe to toe with Maxson myself and I'll kick his _ass_."

He ducked his head down to look her directly in the eye. "Nora, heed my warning. _Don't_ underestimate him. It could easily prove to be fatal."

He sighed. "I can't take you with me, either. It would only paint a target on _your_ back. I won't have your life in danger. Especially not you. You've already risked enough for me. And I'll _never_ forget it for as long as I live. Believe me, Nora - I can never repay this debt." He shook her gently to emphasize his point.

"Get those holotags to Maxson and you'll buy me enough time to get a decent head start. Your final orders from me, soldier." He swallowed and looked away at her strangled sob.

The panic was starting to fly freely through her, wild and high. She was rattling inside like wind on loose shingles. Without him, she'd fall into pieces...

 _No, no, no. Think. Concentrate._

"Zimonja, then. You just helped me clear it out before we rebuilt Prime. There's nobody there yet. All of the armor and weapons from the raiders should still be there. That suit of power armor - take it. You need it. Head north into New Hampshire. As soon as I get back to the Castle I'll send Dogmeat after you. He's a good boy. Take care of him for me."

"I can't let you do that. He's created a bond with you. He's your dog." Danse looked tired and sad and lonely already.

"I'm bonded to you more, Danse. I thought you knew that. Oh my _God_ , didn't I ever tell you?"

Another racking sob forced its way out of her, then another.

"I can't do this without you," she gasped. She could already feel herself start to slip back into the half-crazed animal she'd been before she met him. God only knew how far she would fall this time. Except God had died October 23, 2077.

As ever, he was her calm, solid rock. His handsome face was earnest, his whiskey brown eyes full of determination. "Yes, you can. You can and you will. Never forget your training. You're the best they have now. I saw to that."

Nora dropped her head and ground the heels of her palms against her eyes until bright strobe lights filled her vision.

 _She couldn't cope… she wasn't strong enough to take on this changed world without him… she needed him too much… needed him needed him needed him always and forever..._

She broke down completely when Danse wrapped his arms tightly around her, anchoring her against him so she wouldn't dissipate into the air like so much dust. Or maybe into a premature grave, a welcoming grave. It felt like she was dying. She _was_ dying. He rubbed his hands soothingly up and down her back, whispering against her temple. She couldn't hear a word he was saying - she was crying too hard. She didn't feel him rocking her back and forth because she was falling apart like a house of cards. The ace up her sleeve had just been discovered.

Something in her snapped and she was suddenly screaming, head thrown back in agony. She was screaming like she hadn't since that first day she staggered into the radioactive sunshine with bloody broken nails and lacerated vocal chords and eyes ruby red from blown blood vessels. She screamed for the man she had lost then and the man she was losing now. Her body arched against him with the effort and tendons stood out starkly in throat and fisted hands.

Aghast, he forced her back against his chest and locked her tightly against him. She struggled against his hold and begged him, frantically pleaded with him not to leave, never leave her until something deep inside her gave way and she went mute, eyes flying open with shocked surprise.

His eyes were damp and his face set and white under his sunburned tan. He too was mute. What could he possibly say in the face of her terrible grief?

He attempted to provide what little solace he could, though. He tenderly swept the back of a hand across her flushed, wet cheek, smoothing back the hair that clung to the dampness. He gently kneaded her neck and shoulders. Danse pressed her face against his throat and tucked her head under his chin. He held her tightly and allowed her to breathe his scent in one last time.

Finally, "Nora, I'm so sorry. There isn't-"

"-any other way. I know." she finished dully. "He'll kill you if you stay."

Danse nodded against her temple, his beard catching in her hair as it always did. "You understand why I have to leave, then."

"Yes. Of course," she said in a leaden voice.

She couldn't allow herself to forget that he would be alive, somewhere out there. It would be the _only_ thing that kept her going.

No matter which direction she turned, she was destined to lose him. She, the unlucky Queen of Spades. He, the King of Hearts.

He didn't realize how much she loved him. She didn't either until that moment.

So instead of prolonging her grieving, she pulled his head down with both hands and kissed him fiercely, hungrily. She had to make a memory strong enough to keep her warm through the long, lonely nights ahead. She had to commit the dark, rich taste of his mouth and protective circle of his arms to memory. She had to retain the hitch of his breath and the sweep of his beautiful long lashes against his cheeks as he fully surrendered himself to the kiss.

Nora blindly fumbled with his opened zipper and forced it down to his sternum, where she worked her hand inside against thickly furred bare skin, urgently seeking his pounding heart. Danse groaned, then whispered her name against her mouth, whispered a demand to let him taste her, _please_. She tilted her head back in assent and allowed him access to the column of her throat. His lips and tongue seared into her where he sucked and laved her sensitive skin. The rough texture of his beard abraded her and marked her as his as he continued lower to nip at her collarbone and lick the hollow at the base of her throat.

Maybe he too needed something to sustain him.

The feel of him made her shake with breathtaking need, but it wasn't enough. It could _never_ be enough. She knew that now, too late. If they weren't racing against the clock, she would undress them both and beg him to pick her up and pin her against the wall with the relentless driving of his hips until she keened his name for a different reason, and to hell with the consequences. It would be worth it just to have _that_ memory of him too.

As it was, he was the hunted and Maxson the cunning, vicious hunter. She tenderly kissed him once again, for the road, and drew back. It was time. It was her job to intercept Maxson and allow Danse to escape to safety. She would not fail him.

After that task was complete, Shaun - no, the Director would answer one way or the other for destroying this man's life. Not for creating it, though. Never that.

Nora tugged the zipper of his uniform back in place and stared at his chest through swollen eyes. She didn't dare look up at him. Cowardly of her, but if she saw the wild emotions she felt reflected in his eyes, she'd come undone permanently.

"Once the Institute is dealt with I'm coming after you. I'll find you, I swear."

"I'll hold you to that. And I promise I'll be waiting for you. Now, come on. Let's get the hell out of here."


	2. Chapter 2

She was a mess. A watery, wobbly, panicking disaster on two legs. But when she saw that asshole standing in front of the bunker in his ridiculous fucking battlecoat, all of that seething, out of control emotion sucked right into her center and ejected back out in a coronal flare of superheated rage. The heightened senses and sudden mental clarity of an acute adrenaline rush seemed to slow time around her. She felt like she had just taken a hit of Jet.

It was, by far, the most critically dangerous situation she'd yet been in during all her time spent as the sole survivor of Vault 111. The stakes had surely never been higher. This moment was what Danse had trained her for - they just hadn't known it. How could they have guessed?

Arthur Maxson was every inch the vigorous, angry bull she'd initially pegged him for; his nostrils were flaring and eyes narrowed with bloodlust and rage. His head was lowered threateningly as if he was about to charge. He bellowed and she could almost imagine visible jets of superheated breath blowing out. A Brahma instead of Brahmin. Dangerous, not placid.

"How dare you betray the Brotherhood!" His lips peeled back over his even white teeth in a vicious snarl.

She'd dare this much and more for Danse. He was _hers_ , not Maxson's anymore, and damn her soul to everlasting hell if she'd allow anything to happen to him. It was high time Maxson learned his lesson regarding the consequences of such a deplorable blind betrayal, the like of which she'd never personally seen, even among the Red communist invaders that had overtaken Anchorage that one horrible winter.

"It's not her fault. It's mine."

Danse sounded calm and unperturbed, as if it was the end of just another day in the wasteland. Only the tension radiating off his large body told her he was anything but. He'd have shifted his weight forward on the balls of his feet, ready to respond at the first hint of danger with the extraordinary reflexes that had saved her ass more than a few times. His lightness and agility astounded her - such a big man simply shouldn't be able to move so fast.

 _"Nora, heed my warning. Don't underestimate him. It could easily prove to be fatal."_

Nora rudely shoved herself past Danse and stood squarely in front of him. Maxson would have to fucking go through her first and she wasn't planning on making it easy for him.

She'd seen Danse and Maxson spar, just once. Danse was the only soldier fully capable of taking Maxson on in practice; many wagers were surreptitiously placed with Proctor Teagan on both men. It had been an explosively brutal session that ended in a draw. Both men were evenly matched – Maxson's broader shoulders and deeper chest offset by Danse's height and longer reach.

Afterwards in his personal quarters, she had politely but firmly dismissed Cade's scribe and pointed sternly to the bunk until Danse raised his abraded hands in defeat and gingerly lay down. She snapped her Paladin's broken nose back into place herself, as well as tended to his bloody split lip and carefully probed his chest and sides for fractured ribs and internal injuries underneath the purpling hematomas.

The Elder had likewise withdrawn to Cade's domain to see to his similar lacerations and possible fractures. She had spitefully muttered under her breath and wished Maxson additional painful injuries that would be tended with rough, uncaring hands while she gently dabbed the blood off Danse's face with moistened gauze and administered a stimpak to his thigh. He had cracked a blackened eye open and responded with tolerant amusement at the wrath she displayed towards the Elder for nothing more than the inevitable results of what he had called "exercise."

Exercise.

She took a step forward. She had no hope of besting Maxson in hand-to-hand combat, even in power armor. She'd have to rely on other resources. Fortunately, she had those assets at hand.

 _All right. Let's do this._

Nora took stock of her situation: She had her power armor on again, minus the claustrophobic helmet. Maxson was foolish enough to have not worn his own personalized T-60f, although the protection his armored coat provided was nothing to dismiss lightly. The laser rifle Danse had gifted her with oh-so-long ago was slung on its strap, dangling behind her back - carelessly out of reach.

The powerful pistol she had taken from Kellogg's dying body, however, was not. It was strapped at hand level on her right thigh; just a twitch of her wrist would slide it out of its tactical holster. In her mind's eye, she felt the easy, practiced draw of a well-maintained weapon. She had practiced nightly, her commanding officer standing behind her with his body curved around hers, patiently correcting her stance and guiding hands and limbs to where they needed to be, draw after draw after draw until she mastered the skill.

The weight of the gun in her hand would be heavy, reassuring. Deadly. She imagined her finger tightening around the beautiful, silky resistance of the trigger pull, saw the tiny numerals stamped on the rim of the spinning round cleave through Maxson's face, fatally disintegrating tissue and bone and brain. His mortally wounded body would stagger back from the force of the impact, rotate, and drop. Another shot fired into his vulnerable collarbone would spread bone chips and casing fragments through him like a hot knife through butter, shredding his subclavian arteries.

Then - shift three paces to the left and aim high with feet braced wide for added stability. Even now, she could still feel the impression of Danse's booted foot between hers, nudging them apart.

 _"Shoulder width, soldier. That's it. Just like that. Now, exhale and engage your target."_

The vertibird would be ascending and readying for attack. One carefully placed shot would punch through-

Stop. Focus. Stay sharp. _He_ was speaking. Her enemy. Pay careful attention.

He was pointing directly at Danse - or would have been if she hadn't interposed herself bodily between the two soldiers. Maxson's gestures were angry and stabbing. Like those of the champion prizefighter he easily could have been two hundred years earlier, taunting his opponent.

He snarled, "Silence, synth traitor. I'll deal with you in a moment."

Maxson turned the full force of his gaze on her. "Knight! Why has this… this _thing_ not been destroyed?"

 _Keep pushing. Make him angry. Draw his focus to you._

"You followed me, you son of a bitch? How _dare_ you."

Nora took another half step forward and halted, narrowing her eyes. She didn't _have_ to push - he was livid. His anger was fiery and palpable. It surrounded him and licked out at her, seeking vulnerabilities.

No. She would not underestimate him. And she would prevail. Danse's life depended on it.

"When I sent you to execute this machine, I suspected you'd have difficulty following my orders." Maxson spat on the ground at her feet. "Now that I've arrived, it appears that my instincts were correct. What did _it_ say to you that made you betray the Brotherhood? Why is _it_ still alive?"

Nora leaned forward with the intensity of her reciprocal fury and actually _growled_ at the man. Every muscle in her body was tensed and primed for battle, surrounded and enhanced by the exoskeleton of her power armor. Her blood was boiling and adrenaline was freely pumping through her system. There would be no flight, only fight. She was ready to throw _down_.

"Have you no _shame_?" she hissed. She was coiled and ready to strike at the least provocation. A rattlesnake defending its mate. "Danse would have knelt in front of me and allowed me to _execute_ him, all out of loyalty to _you_. I point-blank refused out of loyalty to _him_. He's still alive because you're wrong about him. You are unworthy of his devotion. He is very much worthy of mine."

Maxson mirrored her posture, leaning forward until she heard the leather of his coat creak. His hot, cinnamon scented breath blew across her face.

"Him!? Danse isn't a man, it's a machine… an automaton created by the Institute. It wasn't born from the womb of a loving mother, it was grown within the cold confines of a _laboratory_."

The sepia-toned, faded image of her mother came to mind, smoothing wrinkles from her slip and rising from bed as a man who wasn't her father rebuckled his belt and patted her on the top of her six-year old head as he left. She had wanted to show mommy something; instead, she had learned what mommy really was.

She remembered what Danse told her about Maxson's own mother. What excellent ammunition that knowledge made, and didn't she know it.

 _Go for the fucking throat._

"Tell me, Elder. Was your mother loving? I've heard otherwise." It was a low, vicious blow. The intention was to make him _bleed_ from whatever wound she could inflict. She paused to allow time for the barb to sink in and set - his giant fists clenched at his sides but he gave no further reaction. Interesting.

She'd started out as a prosecutor before she made the transition to the easier hours and higher pay of a human rights attorney. It had been her true calling, but she never forgot the lessons she learned in the underbelly of the Boston judicial system. She would needle him and draw blood from a myriad of tiny nicks before going for the kill. He'd make a mistake eventually, and she'd slit him open from throat to groin. She would wipe his blood from the corners of her mouth and rise, victorious.

Vindictively, she slid a verbal stiletto between his ribs. "All mine cared about was how many other officers she could fuck while my father was deployed. Maybe yours was the same?"

The jab missed, though. Belatedly, she remembered his father had fallen in battle, leaving his mother a widow.

 _Try, try again._

"A little lonely, timid boy. Unworthy of the name _Maxson_. Maybe _that_ was why she sent you all the way across the country to the Pentagon?"

Deliberately, she invoked the pre-war name of the installation. She, too, had been within its walls as a child.

 _Ahh._ His name, his legacy, was the key. His head rocked back and he looked at her with dawning respect in his icy blue eyes, for the first time in their association. Respect for the viciousness of the blow, but not for the reason behind it.

 _Danse. Danse. Danse._ Her heart beat with the power of the name in her breast.

Her voice became obsidian hard and just as wickedly sharp. "You and I by no means were born from loving wombs. Physically, he may have been created in the robotics division, but Danse is more human than either of us for all of that."

Maxson was breathing heavily, gathering himself for another charge.

 _Danger. Danger!_

"Flesh is flesh. Machine is machine. The two were never meant to intertwine." His hands were angry slashes, leather-clad palms smacking into one another for emphasis. "By attempting to play God, the Institute has taken the sanctity of human life and corrupted it beyond measure. That _thing_ isn't Danse. It's a replica of a dead man, created to infiltrate and destroy from within."

It was Danse's turn to parry and riposte. Riposte, he did - and rightfully so. His baritone voice rumbled out, laden with censure. "All that I've done for the Brotherhood… all the blood I've spilled in our name, how can you say that about me?"

Maxson coldly looked Danse from head to toe. "You're the physical embodiment of what we hate most. Technology that's gone too far. Look around you, Danse." He flung an arm backward. "Look at the scorched earth and the bones that litter the wasteland. Millions… perhaps even _billions_ , died because science outpaced man's restraint."

Maxson threw his head back and disdainfully looked down his aquiline nose. "They called it a "new frontier" and "pushing the envelope," completely disregarding the repercussions. Can't you see that the same thing is happening again?! You're a single bomb in an arsenal of thousands preparing to lay waste to what's left of mankind."

 _Had he really just suggested…?_ _He had. Use it._

Nora laughed, coolly and dismissively. With saccharine sweetness, she cooed, "Technology that's gone too far?"

She made no attempt to conceal her disgust towards his hypocrisy. "So says the man who flew a gunship bristling with pre-war technology, _uninvited_ , into the Commonwealth. So says the man that just gained a pre-war stockpile of thermonuclear bombs to load into the arsenal of a pre-war weapon of mass destruction."

Nora lashed out at him with the full force of her rage. "You're accusing Danse of being a ticking time bomb, yet he stood in the middle of all of those _fucking_ nukes and did nothing when he damn well knew they'd be used against the Institute. He talked _me_ into allowing their use. He spoke to _me_ of the righteousness of their purpose. All out of loyalty to YOU, you piece of _shit_."

With tremendous difficulty, Nora reined herself back in. She was too close to losing control, to becoming nothing more than an unstoppable nuclear chain reaction. Strontium and uranium and cobalt and cesium, expanding outwards in a blast with her at the epicenter.

No. Her moderating control rod was _Danse_. She was fighting for _him_.

 _Get your shit together. Maxson will take instant advantage if you don't._

She had to keep command of her senses, her brain, and her body. She would do all of this for _Danse_ , for no other man was worthy of her ultimate burnout.

Not even her son. Shaun was lost to her. The memory of cloudy blue infant eyes gazing up at her had the power to cut into her deeply. Danse had _always_ been there to hold her tightly together as she fell apart, even when they had been a fledgling team just testing the wings of their friendship. He surrounded her with his strength and allowed her to mourn her son. Once in Sanctuary Hills, in the nursery of her destroyed home. Another time in the Cambridge police station following a jarring molecular reassembly. A third time on the rooftop of C.I.T. after the battle of Bunker Hill. More to follow.

The blue eyes had aged. They were filled with bland, clinical disinterest at the sight of their mother. His father? Regrettable collateral damage, he had said – but those eyes held no true regret at the loss. They were flat and dead. The eyes of a snake. The memory of those blue eyes weakened her, sapped her of strength.

 _His_ beautiful light brown eyes gave her courage. They still held hints of boyish wonder that the wasteland hadn't managed to stamp out. The corners crinkled when she pushed him out of seriousness and into laughter. They filled her spine with titanium. For _him_ , she could do anything.

Her voice became even, calm. Patient. Strong. Steady. Like _his_. His heart beat inside her. He had trained her. He had molded her. He was her everything.

 _"Step back, consider your options, and make your move, soldier."_

"Danse dedicated his life to protecting mankind. I know the sacrifices he's had to make. I've helped him through the nightmares he has every night. _Every_ single night. He's upheld the ideals of the Brotherhood no matter what's been thrown at him. He is more worthy of the title of Elder than you."

Maxson clasped his hands at the small of his back and stood tall with self-righteousness. "Is that what _it_ told you? How can you trust the word of a machine that thinks it's alive? A machine that's had its mind erased, its thoughts programmed… its very soul manufactured. Those ethics that it's striving to champion aren't even its own. They were artificially inserted in an attempt to have it blend in to society."

Danse caught her off guard - he stepped around her and shook his dark head once at her when she sidestepped to keep the shield of her power armor in front of him. He held out a large hand in warning. She bristled at the unspoken command. _Restrain yourself, soldier._ She was defiant. Insubordinate to the last - she had to protect him.

But… she also knew she had to let him have his say. He needed his own closure with this man. His Elder. The person named Arthur who was just that morning still his friend.

Nora stood down. Waiting. Watching. Her hand hovered above the butt of the fallen Kellogg's pistol. It had never been used for a purpose other than revenge. For Kellogg's personal retribution, for the interests of the Institute – nothing more than revenge against the Commonwealth.

Then for Nate. For Shaun.

She had plucked the weapon from Conrad Kellogg's bloody, dying fingers. Turned it in her hand. Looked down the barrel. Pulled the trigger, allowing it to learn the touch of its new mistress. She had shivered in pained pleasure and blown the smoke from the barrel afterwards. Nick Valentine had watched silently, his glowing yellow eyes missing nothing.

She would do the same for _him_ and gladly damn her soul in the process. The soul that was already missing two vital pieces. A third piece, if she allowed Maxson to win this battle. One-two-three… She was the fourth but she was already lost.

 _No_. _As long as Danse was alive, she was not lost._

Danse's voice was full of such regret that her eyes stung in response. "It's true. I was built within the confines of a laboratory, and some of my memories aren't my own."

His head bowed. But it rose back up again, proudly. The Paladin in him would not be silenced or defeated. His voice rang with sincerity.

"But when I saw my brothers dying at my feet, I felt sorrow. When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride. And when I heard your speech about saving the Commonwealth… I felt hope. Don't you understand? I thought I was _human_ , Arthur. From the moment I was taken in by the Brotherhood, I've done absolutely nothing to betray your trust and I never will."

She interjected, her voice raw and hoarse from her earlier screams. "You need to listen to what he's saying. He's already decided to leave the Commonwealth. Let him go, Maxson. I'm begging you. He's _leaving_ ," she gasped.

Her heart lurched violently. The grief flowed through her once again, fiery and excruciating. Napalm. She was unable to control _this_ reaction. He was leaving her. Leaving her alone.

But Maxson would not listen. He could not be reasoned with.

"It's too late for that now. The Institute has foolishly chosen to grant you life. You simply should not exist."

Maxson turned back to Nora with an air of finality. "I don't intend to debate this any longer. My orders stand."

Danse bowed his head and stepped backwards. He smiled at her sadly. He would fight no longer.

"It's all right. We did our best. You convinced me that I was wrong to be ashamed of my true identity and I thank you for it. Whatever you decide, know that I'm going to my grave with no anger and no regrets."

Coldly, Maxson intoned, "Touching. Either you execute Danse, or I will, Knight. The choice is yours."

Maxson was undaunted. Nora felt a thread of panic twine around her titanium backbone. Would she, could she win this battle?

Of course she would. Keep the faith. For _him_.

She would die for _him_. Make it good. Go out in a blaze of nuclear-fueled glory.

Nora inhaled deeply and blew it out. She had not yet begun to fight.

"Fine. My decision is made. Danse, I'm sorry."

Nora took a step backwards for space and drew her pistol. To give the man credit, he didn't so much as flinch when the barrel took careful aim.

Her fingers squeezed around the tactical grip, settling comfortably into the worn grooves. In her mind's eye she could see the flash of combustion from the vented barrel, feel the heavy kick as the bullet left the chamber. Her forefinger tightened on the trigger.

Danse jerked forward – _close, too close_ \- then came to a sudden halt when he saw the expression on her face.

"Nora, stop and think about what you're doing. Is this really what you want?" he asked slowly.

Nora had her eyes locked firmly on the Elder. A bead of sweat had emerged from his temple and was slowly rolling down his cheek. "It seems I have no choice. Step back, my friend."

She drew her lips back in an approximation of a smile. It was dreadful enough that Maxson twitched slightly. She'd seen the same visage before, in the broken mirror of the home she used to live in with a beloved husband and infant son. A smile so terrible it had even made a robotic butler bob backwards on uncertain thrusters.

 _"Mum? You look quite… ill. Perhaps a spot of tea?"_

She was once again the insubordinate, disobedient Knight. She was once again a terrified woman at the end of her rope.

Never again would she watch a loved one die.

Nora tilted her to the side and observed Maxson through slitted eyes. Watching. Waiting. "Rescind your orders and we all walk out of here alive." The barrel was rock steady and aimed directly at the center of Maxson's face.

 _"All right, weapon down. Damn, would you look at this target? Well done, Sinclair. No misses. We'll make a marksman out of you and that hand cannon yet."_

In her peripheral vision, she could see Danse slowly walk wide of her with arms extended out. Inexplicably, he was furious with her. She _had_ to do this, didn't he understand that?

"Sinclair, stand down. That's an order!"

Her rejection was immediate and adamant. "No. He's here to kill you. I refuse to let that happen. I couldn't stop Kellogg from killing Nate, but I will prevent Maxson from killing you, even if he takes me down with him."

He hadn't bellowed at her like that since Fort Strong after she had rushed recklessly into the installation and almost gotten them both killed. It hadn't cowed her then, and it didn't now. The last two inches of metaphorical rope were slowly sliding from her grasp.

 _This was it. Never again._

Her thumb pulled the hammer back.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. If I die here, you run as fast and far as you can. Do you understand me, Danse? You _run_."

She intended on screaming the word at him, but her voice betrayed her. Her heart betrayed her. It slipped past her lips a piteous, heartbroken moan instead.

Maxson was looking at her strangely. Softly, he murmured, "Incredible. You would spill my blood - and yours - to keep this thing alive?"

"I'd die for him. So will you. Are you ready?"

For the first time he showed a glimmer of uncertainty. A nanosecond of a frown. Eyes that flicked over to Danse so quickly would have missed it if she hadn't been toe to toe with him.

"So, it appears we've arrived at an impasse." A declarative statement, rhetorical in nature.

Nora narrowed her eyes. There was just a hint of something else… Yes. There it was. She wasn't mistaken.

 _She had him. She fucking_ had _him._

Quietly, calmly, she said, "There's just one thing about your orders I don't understand. You could have assigned this mission to someone far better qualified to carry out this particular order. Knight Rhys is a perfect example, if you were aiming to punish as well as execute. Instead, you selected the person closest to Danse both personally and professionally. A seemingly undisciplined pre-war civilian with a traumatic onset of PTSD, a drinking problem, and, to put it bluntly, questionable mental stability."

Nora swiveled her head to look at Danse. She wanted to make sure he was listening to what she was about to say. He was unnaturally still and watching Maxson's face intently. Danse deserved to hear this – her closing argument - for whatever peace of mind it might bring him.

In turn, Maxson's attention was riveted on her. "Your network security is shit. I've read my files. We all know Danse is the only thing keeping me from coming unhinged. You sent _me_ after him because you knew I'd fail the mission. You _knew_ I'd refuse. You didn't want him to die, did you?"

"That's what brought you here," she said softly. "To tie up the loose ends, but in a different sense."

She heard Danse inhale sharply.

She holstered her weapon.

Daringly, Nora reached out the very same hand that had been ready to end his life and touched Maxson lightly in the middle of the chest. His icy blue eyes bored into hers. She knew he'd neither acknowledge nor deny what she just told him because as Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel, he _couldn't_.

 _Now. Now is the time. His jugular is exposed._

"Elder Maxson. After all the sacrifices I've made and all the battles I've fought for the Brotherhood, you need to _listen_ to me. You owe me that much."

Their eyes were locked tightly together. Her vision faded on the periphery; all of her concentration was focused on him. "Very well, I'm listening."

"Whether he's human or not, Danse saved the lives of countless Brotherhood soldiers. Now it's time you saved his." Nora splayed her armor-encased fingers over his heart. "He was your _friend_. He is incapable of betrayal on any level. Do the right thing."

Nora looked at Maxson, really looked at him for the first time. She could see the lonely boy a younger Danse had befriended behind those striking, pale eyes. She could see the man he had evolved into - brutally handsome features that had become hard and unyielding because he was given no other choice. He was molded and tempered by a cruel life and the heavy yoke of responsibility.

She could see hints of the man he could be, if he chose to shift his path. He was young and dynamic. His strong back would never bend, nor would his formidable will waver. His wide shoulders would carry his children as well as the Brotherhood forward into a new age. The Atlas of the post-apocalyptic era. He could save them _all_.

She shivered with dark, forbidden pleasure at the alternate universe thought of lying underneath this powerful man and bearing his children. But he would attempt to own her. He would try to dominate and she would resist. She belonged to another who meant strong and steady comfort. He was her guiding light in the storm, her safe port. He was her everything.

She suddenly regretted touching Maxson; the invisible chains of brotherhood and friendship - and something _else_ she couldn't quite put her finger on - that bound the two men together now queerly ensnared her. A three-pointed circle. Nora withdrew her hand.

"You're a stubborn woman. Allowing Danse to live undermines everything the Brotherhood stands for, yet you insist that he remains alive. You'd risk your life, your career - everything for a _synth_?" His voice was full of frank curiosity.

"I'd follow him into hell itself if I needed to. Let him go. Please." Nora felt the hot tears standing in her eyes spill over.

Maxson's gaze missed nothing; he tracked the path of the first tear down her cheek, then the second. "Yes. I see that," he murmured. The pale color had transformed from a subzero chill to the plasma blue of the hottest of flames.

"You leave me only a single alternative." Maxson's voice was hard and his face stony as he turned to deliver his edict to Danse.

"Danse. As far as I'm concerned, you're dead. You were pursued and slain by this Brotherhood Knight and your remains were incinerated. From this day forward, you are forbidden to set foot on the Prydwen, or speak to anyone from the Brotherhood of Steel. Should you choose to ignore me, know that you'll be fired upon immediately. Do we understand each other?"

"I do. Thank you for believing in me, Arthur."

Maxson's response was brutal and swift. "Don't mistake my mercy for acceptance. The only reason you're still alive is because of her." The Elder in him wouldn't allow any lesser response.

The eyes that returned to her were still searching her face for answers to uncomfortable personal questions. Nora could hear what they were asking.

 _You would die for a_ synth _? You would … love … a_ synth _?_

She inclined her head.

 _Yes_.

The two of them had reached an understanding.

"I'm returning to the Prydwen, Knight. Take some time, say your goodbyes, and then I expect to see you there. We still have the Institute to deal with."

Maxson turned to leave, then paused and looked over his shoulder at them both. Was the indefinable emotion in his face regret? Maybe underneath all of the external armor of responsibility and leadership, there was simply a man - a lonely man like Danse had been before she came along - with all of the faults and advantages and human frailty being a man in this new world entailed.

His great coat swirled, kicking up eddies in the dust as he strode away and left them both behind.


	3. Chapter 3

The creature standing at the entrance of the Cambridge police station compound looked more wild animal than human. Certainly more uncivilized than the large dog at her side. Her body language spoke strongly of an animalistic urge to tuck tail between legs and slink away; she swayed back and forth uncertainly until the dog chuffed in its - his, Danse saw as the dog shifted - barrel chest.

Her physical appearance indubitably marked her as one of the very dregs of the wasteland. Possibly a prostitute, quite probably a junkie of some degree or another. Her dark, matted hair looked as if it had been hacked off in ragged handfuls with a combat knife. Her face was dirty and caked with the dried blood of a long, curving cut that ran from left temple to jaw. A bruise on the other temple could easily account for the dazed expression in eye and face. She held a wooden bat in her right hand; it seemed to be her only weapon. Indeed, the only object on her person that Danse could see at all.

Her clothing - if it were truly hers to begin with - was of Vault-Tec origin, one of the ubiquitous cobalt blue and cadmium yellow one-piece suits handed out to vault inhabitants. The vivid colors glowed against the subdued rusts and dead browns of the Commonwealth. The olive green Pip-Boy strapped to her left wrist strengthened the case that she had emerged from a vault at some point. The condition of the clothing indicated she had been out for some time; the knees and seat were so filthy it was impossible to determine the underlying color.

Whatever or whoever she was, she had just wandered into a lull between the relentless waves of ferals that had been pounding their location that day. They had already lost one man. Knight Rhys was injured, perhaps severely, if the intense, frowning concentration and deft movements of Scribe Haylen's hands were any indication.

As pitiful and frail as this creature looked, Danse would take no chances with the remnants of his squad. He immediately inserted himself between them and this strange interloper. He reminded himself that ferals also looked brittle and weak until provoked. His swift movements prompted eyes of an indeterminate color to lock onto him with an unexpected laser sharp focus. A mutual suspicion was prevalent there, along with fear and pain.

It was all she allowed him to see before her head drooped and hanks of hair fell forward to obscure her face. She shuffled forward, acting like nothing more than a smooth skinned feral. Danse wrinkled his nose in disgust - he was downwind and could verify she also _smelled_ like a feral.

The giant tan and black dog, intelligent of face and muscular in body, padded into the compound ahead of her, head lowered warily and ears pricked forward. The dog trotted forward and sniffed Danse's armored leg, then turned to the woman and made another soft noise in his chest. She tottered forward another few paces and dropped to her knees with a boneless flop that was so sudden Danse's finger tensed on his trigger.

Of all the ridiculous things for the stranger to do, she looped her arm around the dog's shoulders and asked, "Are we safe with them?" The dog nudged her with a wet nose and sneezed as if to say yes.

She was no threat to them if she relied on a _dog_ for decisions such as that.

"Watch your fire, people. We have company." Danse turned back to the woman and eyed her. "This location is by no means secured. I can't guarantee your safety, nor will I allow a civilian to remain in this compound. Take a few minutes' rest and move along."

Along with the assistance of the heavy wooden bat she carried, she had to take hold of the dog's sturdy shoulder to push herself upright. Danse observed her with honest astonishment and wondered how she'd survived as short a time span as thirty seconds on her own. He'd seen healthier looking _ferals_ among those attacking them. She was nothing more than a skeleton, with her sunken cheeks and hollowed out eye sockets. The vault suit was too loose around her; it hung in baggy wrinkles and folds that only served to accentuate the prominent jut of the bones underneath. She looked like the walking dead.

Then the walking dead, or a close enough facsimile, attacked again, forcing Danse to change his initial impression of her. The dog barked at her encouragingly and dashed away, only to return a moment later, hindquarters first, tugging his unique version of a gift to her. His jaws were clamped around the calf of a writhing, shrieking feral.

As the dog held the creature in place, the vault dweller placed one foot on the thing's caved in chest and touched the tip of her bat gently to its forehead. She then lifted the weapon high above her head and slammed it down with sufficient force to crush the head like a ripe melon. She didn't flinch when the radioactive pulp splattered across her face and chest.

 _Damn_. He was wasting too much time goggling at her. Danse used the butt of his rifle to propel the feral attempting to crawl into his suit away and lined his shot up. Seemingly turning on his tail, the dog leapt in the air and sunk his teeth into the thing's upper arm, whipping it to the ground with a terrible snarl. The feral's throat was effortlessly and messily torn out by long, white fangs.

 _Maybe, just maybe they'd survive this after all._

Whatever stupor she had been in disappeared, at least momentarily, as she shouldered her bat and turned to face the waves of ghouls that were now pouring in from front and side. She made her stand right where she had risen to her feet, roughly ten feet in front of him, causing her to become the default target of the incoming enemy.

When the woman wasn't beating the ferals to death in the dirt with a manic intensity, she employed a violent swing of the bat that involved the rotation of her whole body from wide planted feet to tilted shoulders. She had an odd mannerism of occasionally lifting the bat straight out from her shoulder as if pointing to something before viciously connecting with the head of the next ghoul windmilling towards her.

From his slightly elevated position, he was able to keep the ferals from overwhelming her, especially with her as their primary focus. In addition to Danse's covering fire, the dog seemed to have a sixth sense for when his mistress needed his aid. He would either bodily knock the ferals away from her or repeat the same process of shake-drag-hold, even pulling a feral over to Danse in the same fashion a few times. The dog was easily able to cover the entirety of the compound, instinctively breaking up the more dangerous clumps of ferals and herding them to their demise as he pleased. It was damned impressive.

It wasn't until they were literally calf deep in feral corpses did Danse realize the steady flow had slowed to a trickle, a trickle to a halt. Between the canine assisted elimination, his own laser rifle, and her gore covered bat, the three oddly mismatched allies had improbably survived. If he were a religious man, he'd be saying fervent prayers of thanks.

For now, he simply shook his head wearily. He abruptly felt every second of his thirty seven years spent on the earth. Without this woman and her dog...

Danse wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees in fatigue, but he had a team to take care of. Immediately, he turned his attention instead to the surviving members of Gladius. Haylen had the peculiar tightness in face and shoulder that he'd come to associate with the loss of one of their own. A surge of concern flooded him for her well-being. In truth, she was the glue that held them all together, both before their heavy losses, and even more afterward. Knight Rhys was pale from shock and pain, but he was _alive_.

Unlike Keane. Another field interment awaited them.

 _He ... had failed them again._

No. There was no time for that. Not… now. He would mourn later, in private.

Firmly, Danse instructed, "Haylen, take Rhys inside and bind his wounds. I'll see to our … friend."

"Yes, sir." The scribe hopped to her feet and started carefully helping the bigger man to his. She kept one hand pressed against the blood stained bandage on his chest as he rose.

"Rhys, once you're on your feet, I want you to make certain that the perimeter is secure." The man seemed steady enough once upright, although he had his arm oddly tucked against his chest. Danse still needed him, injured or not.

The man grunted, "I'm on it," as Haylen slung his other arm over her shoulders and eased him towards the entrance of the police station.

Haylen affectionately patted the man on the stomach, "You're not gonna cry this time, are you?" The Knight's tart response was lost in the squeal of the rusted door hinges.

Danse turned his attention back to their unlikely savior. The woman was sagging with exhaustion, propped up only by the loyal canine leaning against one side and the bat on the other, brain tissue and congealing blood sliding down its length sickeningly. Whatever reserve of energy she had managed to gather was obviously drained by coming to their aid.

He approached her slowly, armored forearm held out cautiously in case the dog thought he had less than honorable intentions toward his mistress. Her companion watched Danse with bright eyes, but made no move to attack. Warily eyeing the dog the whole time, he slipped one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees. It felt like she weighed no more than his laser rifle as he lifted her. She crumpled against him like an empty paper bag as he carried her up the stairs to the entrance, the dog right at his side.

Once inside, Danse carefully set her on her feet. She immediately retreated against the far wall of the police station and slid to the ground with arms clasped tightly around her knees. It was just as well - he had work to do. Haylen would see to her needs in a bit. The scribe had already begun treatment on Rhys's injuries. She wrapped bandages around Rhys's chest and abdomen and administered a stimpak to speed the healing of his fractured arm, then approached the woman and crouched in front of her in a friendly manner.

Haylen talked quietly and kindly to this strange woman for some time before rising to retrieve her medical kit. Very reluctantly, she allowed Haylen to treat the nasty cut on the side of her face, as well as other minor cuts, burns, and abrasions she had acquired in the wasteland. The scribe also found it necessary to start an intravenous drip of Rad Away to flush her system of accumulated radioactive isotopes.

While the medicine was dripping into a vein in the crook of her elbow, Haylen scrounged some clean clothing and a basin of water. The scribe gently began cleansing her face and neck, talking soothingly the whole time. Once the Rad Away bag was emptied, Haylen pulled the woman to her feet and softly encouraged her to step into the other room so she could finish bathing in privacy.

It seemed privacy didn't concern her. The vault dweller immediately stripped her blood-caked clothing off right there in the main room and kicked it away, uttering only a hoarse, "Burn it." She was so gaunt her ribs actually cast shadows down her torso. Danse averted his eyes in pity as she started to remove her filthy undergarments. He turned back to his terminal; he'd seen enough.

In recognition of her assistance, Danse agreed with Haylen's request to allow her to stay the night at the police station with them and share what few supplies they had. The woman refused food and only accepted a can of purified water after some urging from the patient scribe, although the dog hungrily wolfed down the can of Cram Danse offered him.

It was easy to forget she was there - she didn't speak and hardly moved, only changing position once from sitting against the wall to lying in a sharply angular ball on the floor. Haylen gently tucked a blanket around her frail shoulders and raised her head enough to slip a folded Brotherhood uniform underneath as a pillow. The woman drew the woolen blanket over her face and somehow compressed herself into an even tighter ball. The dog curled around her backside, calmly observing the three of them as they prepared to hold services for Knight Keane.

* * *

Late that evening, Danse was patrolling along the platform ringing the perimeter of the compound, rifle at the ready. There was a seemingly never-ending supply of ferals in College Square, just up the street from their location. Anything - the wind, an animal, a sound - could spook them. It wasn't as if he'd be able to sleep anyway - he'd take the night watch and stand guard over the remnants of Gladius until reinforcements arrived.

 _If reinforcements arrived…_ He shook his head to rid it of the negative thoughts. It was imperative to keep a positive frame of mind, even under dire circumstances such as these.

Danse looked over his shoulder at the sound of booted feet on metal and watched as Haylen wearily pulled herself up the tubular railing of the stairs to stand next to him. The blood of her patients, surviving and otherwise, stained her uniform. At some point she had removed her regulation cap, but he would allow the minor infraction to slide. There was no real downtime in the field, and his people had more than earned their pay and whatever meager relaxation they managed to find that evening.

"Your report?" he asked quietly.

"Rhys'll be fine." The scribe sighed. "Let's just say he isn't too fond of our guest, though. Thinks we should have let the ferals put her out of her misery."

Rhys tended towards cruelty at times. It had caused the Knight to receive negative marks in his service record more than once. For Haylen's - and pure propriety's - sake, Danse let the thought remain unspoken. He suspected the two were involved on some level beyond that of squad mates. He would turn a blind eye as long as their relationship didn't affect their duties. He highly doubted the levelheaded scribe would allow personal matters to affect her professional commitments, however.

Danse turned his attention instead to the woman who now complicated their situation. She had proven herself the solution to one crisis but had become a new, additional problem.

"And the vault dweller. What of her status? Were you able to find out any history?"

"Medically, she's a mixed bag. She's finally asleep, for the first time in days, I'm guessing. She should begin to recover her health now that the rads are gone, although she's still refusing to eat. From the looseness of her skin, I'd say she's lost a significant amount of weight in a very short amount of time. On top of that, she's dangerously dehydrated."

Haylen frowned unhappily and shook her head. "Mentally … well, that's another story. At the very least, she has severe psychological trauma. I don't think she's _actively_ suicidal but she's definitely borderline. She told me she's looking for someone but completely shut down as soon as I started to question her. A family member, I believe. Perhaps even an infant, as she has newer stretch marks on her abdomen that would correspond with a recent pregnancy. She's wearing a wedding ring and has another on a chain around her neck but refuses to discuss that topic either. The loss of spouse and child could easily account for the trauma. I just don't have enough experience in psychotherapy to diagnose her any further, let alone treat her. _Damn_ it, I wish Cade were here."

Danse reached out and squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. "You're an extremely capable medic, Haylen. I doubt even Cade would have done any better than you have in the field. I'll be recommending a promotion as soon as I'm able."

Haylen braced her hands against the railing and hung her head. "I … couldn't save them, Danse. If Cade had been here…" She glanced over at the Brotherhood flag fluttering in the slight nighttime breeze. It had briefly served as a shroud for Knight Keane earlier that evening. Danse knew without asking that the scribe felt each death as keenly as he did.

Haylen turned to him and slipped an arm through the crook of his elbow. For a long silent moment, she rested her head on his arm and leaned against him. Danse permitted them both to disregard decorum for the moment. He simply stood silently beside her, allowing her off the record time to mourn their losses. He'd be deceiving himself if he didn't admit to leaning into her slightly in return.

After a few minutes, Danse sighed. Duty, as always, called. "I have to ask - is she in any way capable of assisting with the ArcJet op? We _need_ that damned transmitter."

Haylen was plainly worried; he could see the doubt in her face when she straightened and looked up at him. "I don't know. I just don't know. She's ready to tip over the edge at any time. It's positively _criminal_ the way people are released from vaults, totally unprepared for the outside world."

Haylen shook her head sorrowfully. "She needs urgent psychiatric care. We can't help her here, Danse, not with our limited resources." She sighed. "It... might be kinder to let her stay another night and send her on her way. I hate to say release her back into the wild, but…" she trailed off.

Danse rubbed his neck, wincing at the soreness of tight muscles and even tighter knots. He'd been all but living in his power armor since the Corvega assembly plant disaster. "We'll start preparations for my departure first thing in the morning. I'll have to run the mission solo. _Damn_ it, I hate going in blind, but we have no choice."

Determinedly, the scribe said, "Take us with you, Paladin. You need backup." She crossed her arms and scowled at him.

 _No. He wouldn't risk their lives. Only his._

"That's _not_ an option, soldier. Listen closely, Haylen. You and Rhys take cover and wait for me. Only venture out if it's absolutely necessary. If the vault dweller's willing and you judge her capable enough, I'm authorizing you to let her and the dog remain to assist you. On the other hand, if you believe she's a danger to herself or the two of you, turn her out. If _anything_ untoward happens here, or if I don't return in a few days, make your way to the fallback location. Understand?"

The angle of her jaw and stubborn look in her eye told him she was prepared to argue. He would nip that argument in the bud. "That's an _order_ , Scribe Haylen."

Haylen's shoulders slumped in defeat. She knew that he knew she was too well trained to push the issue. Instead, she patted him on the arm and turned to leave. "You should get some rest, Danse. I worry about you, you know," she said gently.

"Negative." He softened his tone. "And… I know you do. I'll be fine. Go get some rack time. I'll come get you if I need a break."

They both knew he wouldn't.

The vault dweller's hysterical screams later that night even reached his ears on the roof of the police station, leading him to believe they were under attack again. As the actual source of her agitation became apparent, he grimly authorized the usage of their last precious vial of sedative before the woman attracted a fresh flood of ferals. If she continued to have such intense flashbacks, they could easily be ripped to pieces before sunrise.

Haylen was right. She'd have to go. He'd give her one of the weapons recovered from the police station armory in the morning, with their thanks, along with enough ammo to last her a few days at least. She needed something with long-range ballistic capability to augment the melee weapon she carried. It was all he could spare.

* * *

The next morning he was inspecting and cleaning his armor and weapons one last time for the mission ahead of him. He'd be leaving within the hour for the ArcJet facility. Danse had no choice - he'd have to try to infiltrate the location alone to attempt to retrieve the Deep Range Transmitter. It was their only hope of calling for backup. In truth, it was their last chance. He firmly tried to ignore the feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach. If he fell in combat or even failed his mission, there was a very good chance the Commonwealth would consume Gladius, much like Artemis had been seemingly swallowed whole before them.

The vault dweller approached him as he was tightening a loose hydraulic coupling on the left leg of his power armor. He set his wrench down and courteously turned to face her, noting the unconscious twitching in her limbs and wildness in her eyes that was only barely restrained.

"I'm coming with. You need my help." It was the first full sentence she had yet spoken to him.

He looked her over thoughtfully. She did look slightly stronger. It seemed the chemically induced sleep had helped. She was standing on her own two feet, not propped up by any aid. Her head was not drooping and her eyes, if a bit glazed, at least indicated she was living in the present moment and not in the past with the clawed demons that were riding her back.

The dog was standing right next to her as always, tail gently waving back and forth and attentive ears perked forward. Danse had a strange feeling the dog wouldn't allow her to participate in the mission if he sensed she was unable to handle it. A very unusual weathervane to be sure, but he'd encountered stranger situations.

He nodded decisively. "Very well. If you accompany me, we do this quickly, quietly, and by the book. No heroics."

She paled even more, if that were possible, and whispered bitterly, "You're mistaken, Paladin. I'm no hero."

* * *

As they worked their way through the facility, Danse realized Haylen's assessment had been correct - the woman was deeply disturbed, perhaps on the brink of psychosis. Frequently, he noticed her hands and limbs quaking with tremors. She often tossed her head wildly as if she were shaking away thoughts that threatened to pull her back into a catatonic state or tip her into hysteria. She spoke as little as possible, only answering him with robotic responses spoken in a flat, dull monotone that caused him to grit his teeth.

Danse also caught hints of what Haylen had sensed in her - the woman was fearless in the sense that it seemed she didn't care if she lived or died. She was just as impassive and unemotional staring down the barrel of a synth's laser rifle as she was when she helped him to his feet after the test engine had unexpectedly fired.

Yet... Danse was forced to reevaluate her. Again. He honestly hadn't expected much out of this vault dweller. He just needed someone there to watch his back - her dog, mainly. He found himself quite dumbfounded when he discovered that she was, in fact, _competent_. Observant. Willing to obey orders, for the most part. She had the ability to reason and carry tasks out calmly under stress. She was able to easily worm into the various terminals throughout the multi-level building. And amazingly enough, she could pick locks, a skill he had tried and failed at, to his everlasting annoyance. This aptitude spoke of another trait that was a benefit for a Brotherhood soldier - patience.

Danse rapidly arrived at the conclusion that despite her current mental state, she was a worthy candidate for inclusion into their ranks. She had potential, a hell of a lot of it, too. He would extend an offer for her to join the Brotherhood. He even halfway considered offering to sponsor her, if she chose to accept and if permission was granted when backup finally appeared.

Perhaps most importantly, when Knight-Captain Cade arrived, he would be able to provide her with the therapeutic medications and intense psychotherapy she needed to regain her mental equilibrium. He would also be able to tailor a diet for her emaciated frame that would restore much needed body fat and begin to rebuild lean, healthy muscle. True success as a soldier was not possible without a strong mind and body.

To his sincere regret, she declined his offer to join the Brotherhood of Steel. Instead, she eerily looked straight through him and told him she needed to reach Fenway Park. Danse recalled it was an archaic name for the large settlement on their maps called Diamond City. Something about a green monster came to mind. Perhaps a legendary battle had been fought there - he couldn't remember without pulling the reference file back up on his terminal.

They parted ways outside the facility, he with the deep range transmitter carefully cradled against his armored chest, she with his best laser rifle held protectively in her arms. She had blinked her eyes owlishly in disbelief when he presented her with the only compensation he had available to him. To give credit where credit was due, she seemed genuinely appreciative of his gesture, thanking him with an incredulous murmur. He felt _good_ knowing the rifle was in capable hands. More than that, it would keep her safe during her travels.

As he was approaching Cambridge, he realized he had never bothered to learn her name. She and the dog had faded away as quietly as they had arrived.

* * *

Two days after the Prydwen arrived, the vault dweller slipped unnoticed back into the police station compound. The site was bustling with activity, causing Danse to overlook her presence until an under-the-breath curse from Rhys alerted him that something was potentially amiss. He spotted her standing in the same location she had been the first time he laid eyes on her. This time she was clad entirely in black, from the toe of her rugged combat boots to snug fitting leather pants and jacket. Even the short cropped hair was the same color; he struggled to recall it if it had been before. He shrugged - it was of little importance.

Gone was the bat; in its place was a giant handgun buckled to her thigh. He imagined her tiny wrists snapping in two from the kickback such a large caliber weapon would have. He was pleased to note the rifle he had presented to her was still with her, slung over her shoulder. Even more pleasing - it looked well cared for. The ever-loyal canine was also still at her side. The dog trotted forward to greet him with a lashing tail and happy, tongue-lolling smile. Danse permitted himself to reach out and scratch behind an ear.

The woman in black picked her way around the crates that were airlifted to their location by vertibird just that morning, gliding her fingers across one of them. To the surviving members of Recon Squad Gladius, the arrival of the crates had meant deliverance in more than one sense of the word. They meant continuity, the end of a one mission and beginning of another, and granted the surety of knowing they were not _alone_ anymore. The cavalry had arrived, and in spades.

Danse was standing near the entrance of the police station; possibly on the very step he had been on the first time she appeared, as she slowly approached his position. He hadn't thought it possible, but she looked even worse this time. Her face held an unnatural grayish pallor and her bottom lip looked like it had been recently bitten through. It was swollen and still seeped blood sluggishly. As he watched, her tongue darted out to clean the blood off, causing him to wince in pained sympathy. He'd had a similar injury once when a vertibird he was riding hit a patch of turbulence over the Potomac and dropped twenty feet in a split second.

The vault dweller's right hand incessantly stroked the butt of the gun - unconsciously, he presumed. If she were truly aware of what she was doing, she would also recognize it was a risky thing to do in a compound full of battle-hardened soldiers who had been pent up with no combat or other outlet for weeks. He glared at the reinforcements warningly - indeed, many pairs of eyes and optical sensors were following her every move with suspicion and overt hostility.

She slowly climbed up onto the same step he was on and then scowled faintly, presumably at the drastic difference in their heights. It was the first indication of annoyance - or any other emotion - he had seen from her, other than the shocking outburst of hysteria. She took one more step up, then another two until they were eye level.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was warm and dark, like a scrap of velvet he had once found back in the Capital wasteland. "Paladin," she said in greeting.

Her head listed to the side. The force of her exhaustion reached out and unwillingly roped him in. He could feel every ache and pain they both felt in that shared moment, both real and phantom, past and present.

Danse nodded noncommittally in return. "Civilian. I didn't expect to see you again." He allowed a touch of surprise to color his voice.

A frown puckered her brow. "I hadn't intended on coming back. My situation has… changed. If the offer still stands, I'd like to join you."

Her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed forward into his arms with the next breath she took.

* * *

Danse dryly thought it was becoming a habit to carry this wastelander inside the police station, but carry her he would. Haylen thoroughly checked the woman's unconscious figure over, pronouncing her still acutely malnourished and dehydrated with no small amount of dismay. Haylen had to make five attempts to find a vein sufficient for the smallest gauge needle she had at her disposal to slip in and start providing critically needed fluids via IV.

For good measure, Haylen injected her with a stimpak to quicken cellular regeneration and the production of white blood cells. The vault dweller's breath positively reeked of alcohol, which by no means helped with the seriousness of her present medical state. The stimpak would also flush that particular poison from her system.

Danse was sitting next to her cot located in the quieter side room when she woke. He had been on his feet since before dawn; it was as good an opportunity as any to take a well-needed break. And - he admitted to himself - he was curious. He often thought about her, wondering if she had managed to survive, despite the odds stacked against her. Her eyes opened and she blinked slowly at the ceiling. It occurred to him she might not recall where she currently was. Incrementally, she rolled her head towards him on the thin straw-filled pillow. Her bloodshot eyes held recognition when they met his. It was a positive sign, at least.

"Hello," she whispered. The dog stuck his snout into her hand and whined softly until she fondled his ears and stroked his nose and told him what a good boy he was.

Danse dipped his head in acknowledgement of her greeting. "Did you reach…" What had she called it? Ahh, yes. "Fenway Park?"

"Yes. It's... changed so much since…" Her voice cracked and halted.

The woman struggled to rise. Mindful of the tubing still in her arm and the fragility of her bird-like bones, Danse assisted her to a sitting position. Haylen had removed the stiff leather jacket prior to treatment. Under the thin white tank top she wore underneath the jacket, her chest was even more concave than the last time he had seen her. The fibers in her arms that could laughably be called muscles were wasted away enough he could easily encircle one arm between thumb and forefinger.

Silently, he offered her the can of water Haylen had opened to cleanse the deep wound in her bottom lip. She shook her head wildly - perhaps to banish unwelcome thoughts again - and tried to take a sip with a hand trembling so badly he had to support the bottom of the can and guide it to her mouth.

Danse wasn't quite sure why the mere mention of the settlement could cause such profound sorrow. He had the strange feeling while talking to her that he was just skimming across the surface of a deceptively shallow looking pond. There was an odd depth to her, a peculiar quality that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps due to her status as a vault dweller?

"Thank you for…" she trailed off and nodded jerkily towards the line in her arm.

"No thanks are necessary. If you plan on joining us, we need to improve your health. What's your name, civilian?"

She licked her cracked lips. "Nora. Nora Sinclair."

It almost sounded like she was testing the name out for the first time. He shrugged. If she was, it was of no matter to him. He himself wasn't completely sure of his entire name. She would be reborn as a soldier in the Brotherhood of Steel. She could choose her own destiny and any name she desired.

She swayed in place for a moment and then pitched forward slowly. He caught her by thin shoulders and steadied her posture. The woman could certainly use a suit of power armor, if only to keep her upright.

Unintentionally, she echoed his thought. "I... need power armor. Will I get my own? Like you? Like them?" She flicked a finger outwards; he assumed 'them' meant the soldiers stationed outside.

Danse nodded. "Standard issue T-60b. Not generally assigned to new recruits, but I'm going to recommend an immediate promotion to Knight. You have what it takes, soldier. You're one of us now."

She made a strange noise that sounded like a cross between a hiccup and a sigh and reached out a small, dirt-encrusted hand as if to touch his shoulder. She clenched it into a fist and returned it to her lap instead.

Curiously, he eyed her. Her tiny body contained such a bizarre mixture of ability and handicap. Danse knew it was an extremely ridiculous thought, but she somehow seemed almost too small to contain all of the confusing, confused puzzle pieces that she seemed to consist of. He didn't know what to make of her, nor how to categorize her. She was unlike any civilian he had previously encountered.

The hand lifted to cover her mouth now. More of the strange sounds were coming out of her, accompanied by heaving shoulders and ah, tears. Tears were spilling out of her eyes and flowing down her cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the veil of road dust on her skin. That explained her… indisposition. Danse craned his neck to the right to see if Haylen was in the next room. If the vault dweller - Sinclair, he reminded himself - was having a breakdown of some kind, she needed the attendance of medical personnel. He was... quite unsuited to this particular task.

To his complete surprise, Sinclair thought otherwise. She gently touched his bicep, regaining his instant attention and regard.

"Please. My baby boy… They have him. The Institute. Paladin, I … need your help. I need _you_."

With that startling declaration, she fell forward, wrapping her arms around his neck with the tenacious strength borne of desperation and grief. She buried her wet face against his collarbone and clung to him seemingly for dear life as she sobbed uncontrollably. The dog whined again and bumped against Danse's leg urgently.

 _This. This is why he was in the Commonwealth. He'd received the reports from Proctor Quinlan that morning. Damn this Institute to_ hell _._

It was no wonder she was in such poor condition. It didn't take much imagination or empathy to put himself into her shoes - the loss of her son had to be eating her alive. Correction, it _was_ eating her alive, from the inside out. Haylen's astute guess had been right after all. The intensity of her despair was truly pitiful to take in.

Hesitantly, he dared to pass a hand up and down her spine in a gesture of comfort. Haylen had opened his eyes to the value of nothing more and nothing less than simple physical contact. It would cause him no hardship to try to ease her pain a tiny bit.

To his slightly embarrassed relief, the scribe immediately appeared when she heard the commotion. She sat on the cot next to Sinclair, slid an arm around her quaking shoulders comfortingly, and offered a clean, damp cloth for her to wipe her face and nose.

After her sobs had tapered off, Danse cleared his throat and tapped her knee to gain her attention. "We have a common enemy, it seems. Tell me about your son. When did he go missing? I don't doubt what you're saying, but how do you _know_ the Institute has him?"

The halting, improbable narrative he drew out of her with each successive question caused his heart to alternately stop and leap. When she reached the end of her story - the last incredible handful of events that had prompted her to seek him out - he and Haylen incredulously looked at each other over Sinclair's bowed head. Then, quickly and on her own initiative, the scribe pulled the IV catheter from Sinclair's arm and taped a piece of gauze over the site. Gently, she guided the woman's arms through the sleeves of her jacket and pulled her dazed, unresisting figure to her feet.

In the same instant, Danse bellowed for the vertibird crew to fire the engines on the double and standby for departure. He was gratified to hear the instantaneous thumping of boots jumping to attention. The dog could sense something was about to happen - he circled round and round with excitement, nails clicking rapidly against the wooden floorboards.

This traumatized, grief-stricken slip of a woman was the key to cracking the Institute wide open. The truth of that statement resonated deep in the marrow of his bones. He had to get her to the Prydwen and Elder Maxson _yesterday_.

The importance of the intel he had just learned far outweighed decorum at that moment; Danse scooped her off her feet and carried her to the roof himself, her dog hot at his heels. Impatiently, he waited for the crew to prep the vertibird. He shielded her from the prop wash of the rotors that were whining to life with his own body, briefly looking down to check on her and drawing her closer to his chest as she sighed deeply and curled trustingly against him. Danse would pull rank, something he rarely did, and insist upon sponsorship of her. He fully intended to become her guardian and keep her safely under his wing and watchful eye at all times.

* * *

As newly minted Knight Nora Sinclair acclimatized to her new life in the Brotherhood, Danse became her constant, silent shadow. He was her sponsor and commanding officer; therefore, she reasonably turned to him for reassurance when that life became too overwhelming to bear. He was still very much unused to physical contact that didn't involve attempted murder, but he made an effort to have an available shoulder whenever she needed one.

In the very first hour she was onboard the Prydwen, Cade began working diligently to heal her, both mentally and physically. After quietly observing a few of their daily psychotherapy sessions – at her specific request - Danse privately asked Cade to teach him some of the techniques used during her care. The Knight-Captain had been exceedingly reluctant at first, but once he saw how responsive Sinclair was to her commanding officer's deep voice and calm presence, he had no further objections.

Cade had even less objection to including Danse in the care of his patient when the three of them found out that Danse was the only one who could bully her into eating anything beyond a couple bites of food at a time. The promise of power armor was a powerful carrot on a stick, and one he dangled ruthlessly. Food didn't _need_ to taste good, it was merely necessary fuel for the body, he insisted as she stubbornly balked.

Sinclair was often … difficult to deal with as different layers of trauma and aspects of her personality were uncovered. Danse realized and fully understood that when she became argumentative, paranoid, nonverbal, or downright snaky she was trying her damndest not to drown. He continually reinforced the simple fact that at any time and no matter what the circumstance, she could reach out for the help that was never far away. It didn't take long for her to tentatively seek his help, much as she had done one fateful day in Cambridge.

He couldn't help her completely turn off the ebb and flow of grief, but he could give her an outlet for the rage that was understandably starting to show through the cracks – an outlet in the form of the heavy sand filled bag located in the belly of the giant airship. Sinclair immediately became an apt kickboxing student. She was rarely far from his side, but when she was absent, he knew where he would find her. As she started to gain weight on her frame, he coached her on how to best tone and strengthen her redeveloping muscles.

Once she was taking her first wobbly steps on the road to recovery and jerkily stomping around the airport in her newly assigned suit of power armor, Danse started to earnestly train her to the best of his formidable abilities. During their off-duty hours, Danse ran her through the gamut of coping techniques Cade had taught him until he found a few that really worked for him – and her. He helped her to face her fear head on and push through it, supported her through her ever present torment and inevitable mental breakdowns, and picked her up and dusted her off when she was knocked flat and unable to get back up.

Their first mission together to regain the arsenal in Fort Strong was very nearly a catastrophe, but each successive operation they ran together was smoother and easier. Even though they were often at loggerheads in those early days, he slowly and patiently drew out the potential he'd seen in her and showed her how to harness it and _unleash_ it when necessary.

It became quite apparent that the two of them were well suited in personality and temperament. The traumatized, unraveled creature she had been slowly reknit herself back together into a competent, tough soldier, fully capable of handling anything the wasteland had to throw at her. She was the partner he didn't know he needed.

He and Dogmeat had kept each other company in Cambridge during the long and unexpectedly _lonely_ week she had spent inside the Institute once the molecular relay had finally been finished. Barring that week and minor disruptions of no more than a day or two at a time, he and the vault dweller named Nora Sinclair had each other's backs ever since.

She had gained a protector and champion, and he had gained … a friend. To someone who had been, by choice and necessity, _alone_ for so long, friendship was a far more compelling carrot than anything else he could think of, power armor included.


	4. Chapter 4

Long after the noise of the departing vertibird carrying Arthur Maxson faded, Danse and Nora stood side by side together. It was just like any other evening they spent in the Commonwealth. Unlike any other evening, the silence between them stretched out oddly instead of comfortably. He was unsure of how to fill it. With actions? Words? He needed a starting point, only he wasn't skilled enough, wasn't practiced enough to rattle something off that didn't pertain to power armor or tactics or a lifetime of Brotherhood doctrine. What the hell could he even say to her that encompassed the entirety of what he wanted to convey?

The last words Maxson would ever speak to him ran through his head again: _"The only reason you're still alive is because of her."_

He'd start right there. The woman who had fought tooth and nail to save his life was standing next to him, only an arm's length away. There wouldn't ever be a better starting point than that.

His voice felt as rough and uneven in his throat as it sounded to his ears. "You stood up to Elder Maxson for me. I'll never forget that for as long as I live."

A minute went by, then another. Nora wasn't moving or speaking. The buzzing, flickering light wired to the side of the bunker cast a deep shadow across her profile where it was blocked by the heavy shoulder plates of her suit. Danse couldn't see her face well enough to judge her expression, or even see her eyes. Her lack of response to his overture was causing an uncharacteristic apprehension to bubble up from the base of his spine.

She had drawn her line in the sand between the two of them and Maxson and _routed_ him. Danse was truly in awe of her; he'd never seen anything like it. Maybe she was unaware of what she had accomplished in that extraordinary feat. On the other hand, perhaps she was having second thoughts about…

Danse swallowed hard against a suddenly parched throat and clenched his hands into fists.

When she finally replied, Nora's voice was tight. There was a painful, bitter edge present that Danse only heard on the rare occasions when she talked of the person her son had become. "We still need to get you out of here. Before Maxson comes back. We're heading north and I'm coming with you. I need to know you're safe and I… I have to try to make peace with your-" she exhaled sharply and the heavy armor surrounding her sagged forward "-with your absence."

Understanding flooded him, chasing away the apprehension and leaving only knee-weakening relief in its place. _S_ he wasn't rejecting him - he should have known better than to let a half-formed, ridiculous worry like that bother him, not after all that he had just witnessed and heard. Not after the haunting, heart wrenching way she had keened his name and sobbed brokenly in his arms _._

No, Nora still thought he was in danger. She still thought he needed to leave the Commonwealth, and along with it, her.

 _Not a chance in hell of that happening. Not now, not ever._

As emphatically as he could, Danse said, "I'm not going anywhere. Leaving the Commonwealth isn't necessary anymore. You just saw to that, and I couldn't be prouder of you."

Her breath caught again at his declaration, a softer, surprised inhalation that rushed back out shakily in a gasp that sounded suspiciously like his name. Like a bizarre titanium flower, the back of her suit unlocked and spread open with a hydraulic hiss. Armor origami, she frequently called it. She wasn't climbing out, though. She was simply standing in place with her head bowed.

Finally, she quietly asked, "Help me out of this suit, would you?"

As Danse immediately shifted to respond to her request, he saw that her hands were white-knuckled where she clung to the frame like a limpet. The orange of her uniform was darkened with sweat from shoulder blades to the small of her back. It suddenly occurred to him that she was just as mentally and physically exhausted as he was. More, perhaps. She had fought _hard_ on his behalf during her magnificent, cutthroat showdown with Maxson. And if she had gone through two fusion cores to get to him, that meant she had to have practically sprinted the whole way from the airport to their present location.

Danse stepped directly behind her and slid his hands around the curve of her hips. Even with the significant boost to her height the suit provided, she was still only an inch or two taller than his six feet. "Step back with your left foot. Good. Now the right."

Despite his assistance, her booted foot caught anyway and she rather inelegantly flopped backwards into his ready arms. As soon as she landed, he felt that she was shivering, most likely from a combination of acute stress and rapidly cooling body temperature as the chill of evening descended on them. It was no wonder she'd been holding onto the suit so tightly - it had been keeping her upright. Gently he turned her around to face him; she instantly buried her face into his chest and tightly twined her arms around his waist. Yes, she could hold onto him instead. He... would decidedly prefer it, in fact.

Danse soothingly kneaded the tight muscles at the nape of her neck and shoulders. "You're okay. We're okay. Maxson's gone. You did it, Nora."

Nora sighed heavily in response and tilted her head diagonally to look up at him for a long, quiet moment. She looked so damned forlorn, even now, after he had tried to reassure her. Whatever it took to chase that look out of her eyes, he'd do.

"Are you sure? If he comes back..." Her shoulders hunched inwards under his hands and her sharp fingertips dug into the small of his back through the material of his uniform.

He was no longer her commanding officer. Fate had seen to that. He was still her friend, though. It was his duty to ease this quiet desperation; he owed her that and so much more. The loyalty Danse held for this woman was no less absolute and steadfast than the devotion she had expressed to Maxson of having for him.

"Nora, listen to me." Danse captured her pointed chin between his thumb and the first knuckle of his forefinger. "Maxson is a man of his word. He won't show his face here again, and as long as I stay out of the Brotherhood's way, he won't send anyone after me. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you, ever. Understand?"

He could only hope _this_ reassurance would alleviate her distress.

The battleship blue of her eyes roamed over his features slowly, almost as if… she was memorizing his face? They traced over the nearly vertical scar across his eye socket, down to his mouth, along his jaw line and the curved scar that marked his other cheek, then back up. He could all but feel the ghost of her touch in the wake of her intense scrutiny.

Danse knew he was usually the last one to pick up on emotional undercurrents, even the obvious ones, and he was fine with that. It was less mess that way. Feelings - and even worse, dealing with them - just didn't fall into his wheelhouse. That philosophy had… changed, at least where she was concerned. The constant companionship of the last half year made her as simple for him to read as the pre-war children's primer that she kept carefully tucked away at the very bottom of her pack.

The emotions that now flowed over her face were easy to interpret and fascinating to watch. Sorrow changed into bewilderment, bewilderment to realization as she processed what he had just told her. The dawning joy he saw lighting up her tired, sad, beautiful eyes shook him deeply. The fact that she could feel so much happiness at the knowledge he'd still be at her side … humbled him.

She whispered, "Truly? You're staying?"

"Truly. I'm not going _anywhere_." Danse rubbed his palms up and down her upper arms encouragingly.

Endearingly, she sniffled and swiped the edge of her sleeve across her eyes. The seemingly insignificant little sound and motion were, to him, quite significant. They unearthed something unexpectedly rebellious deep within him. Nobody else had ever cared for him so deeply. Nothing else in his world was making any sense except her, so why on earth should he behave in a manner that had previously been expected of him?

 _Not to put too fine a point on it, but screw decorum._

Danse crushed her against his chest, ignoring the squeak of surprise she let out. It wasn't clear who was holding who the tightest after that. She, with her arms wrapped around his neck and fingers tangled in his hair, or he, literally lifting her off her feet with his embrace. She was murmuring a litany of repeated words into his ear: _oh my god, thank you, oh my god, oh my god_. She was trembling so badly he didn't dare let her go. Or maybe he was the one shaking like a leaf in a radstorm? It was a distinct possibility.

Too much had happened in the last handful of hours. Too much had been revealed to him, both horribly and wonderfully. More than he could even start to process right now, but there'd be time enough for that later, thanks to her. All Danse knew was that he needed Nora just as much as she needed him in that moment, and for once in his damned life, he'd act selfishly and allow himself to indulge.

A breathy laugh puffed across his ear and Nora squirmed against him. "You're squishing me."

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears - tears of happiness, not pain - as he instantly released her and backed away a step. "Sorry. I... ah… Sorry."

She swayed forward into the space he left between them to allow the cool fingers of her hand to follow him. They tenderly smoothed the hair at his temple back and tucked it behind his ear. The errant, superfluous notion that he'd soon have to ask her for a trim came to mind, and with it the remembered pleasure of feeling her strong fingers gliding over his head and neck as she carefully snipped.

Her mind had been following the same path and echoed the thought in a voice just as unsteady as her touch. "You need another haircut already. How _human_ of you," she said softly and very pointedly.

Solemnly, he shook his head and settled his hands around the indentation of her waist as a precautionary step; she still looked on the verge of collapsing. "Negative. Your hands are shaking too much right now. I'll take a rain check."

"Good call. You'd look like a ghoul after I was done with you. No hair. No ears or nose, either." Her breath caught in her throat with an odd sound that could have been a laugh and she swiped a finger down the bridge of his nose. The happy glow still hadn't faded from her wet eyes.

Her hand curved to affectionately stroke his cheek, then she shivered mightily and plaintively asked, "Can we go inside or something? I'm not necessarily complaining, but you're about the only thing holding me up right now."

He immediately replied, "Of course. Easy now, I've got you. Just relax."

The adrenaline high she had been riding would be bottoming out hard and fast. She was crashing now and likely needed some intervention to check the after effects she'd soon have. If she couldn't even climb down from her power armor, it wasn't too far a stretch to conclude she sure as hell wouldn't be able to walk.

Danse swung her up into his arms and carried her the short distance into the upper level of the bunker. Once inside, he carefully set her onto the surface of the rusted metal desk within, standing directly in front of her in case she started to slither off the slippery surface. She braced her hands on the rounded edge of the desk and hung her head.

 _This_ was the sort of situation he had been trained to deal with, and it was damn comforting to know he could fall back on the familiarity of his training. Danse explained, "You're coming down from a massive adrenaline dump. Take it nice and slow. It's going to be rough for a while until the endorphins and chemicals are reabsorbed into your bloodstream. Dizzy? Headache?"

She nodded then winced at the injudicious movement. "Dizzy, no headache, but some nausea."

Danse sandwiched her ice-cold hands between his and briskly – or more to the point, futilely – tried to rub some warmth back into them, and not for the first time, either. Her slender fingers often felt like icicles; she delighted in creeping up behind him and wickedly sliding them inside his collar or underneath the hemline of his shirt while he was preoccupied with some task or another.

"Concentrate on my voice and count to ten with me. One… two…" It was a simple but effective technique, and one he'd used many times to draw her fragmented attention back to him, back to the present.

Nora obediently chanted the numbers with him until they reached ten.

"Again. One… two… three…" he prompted.

Nora pulled her hands out of his grasp and tucked them under her armpits. She narrowed her eyes and complained, "I know how to count, Danse. I'm not that far gone. Any water in here?"

Despite himself, he grinned at her irritable comment. _The more things changed..._

"Sit tight, I'll look." There had to be something lying around, especially in a well-fortified location such as this listening post.

Danse quickly started a search for some kind of liquid that she could sip that _wasn't_ alcohol, although hitting the dusty bottle of whiskey on the adjacent shelf with her sounded pretty damn good right about then. He'd never allowed himself to become inebriated in her presence - his gut had told him it could prove to be a monumental lapse in judgment.

 _Now, though… Why the hell not?_

Danse shook his head to clear it of the tempting distraction and circled back to approach the desk she was perched on. One of the drawers in the desk she was sitting on was jammed shut. A hearty yank and scream of protesting metal freed it, revealing two cans of water and a pistol. He grabbed a can and cracked the seal as he returned to her, listening for the quiet yet menacing hiss that indicated the integrity of the contents had been compromised. Carefully he took a sip and held it in his mouth, ready to spit it out, but it tasted metallic and flat instead of moldy or foul. No other flavor was present but for the familiar taste of stale, centuries old purified water.

Danse stood in front of her and guided the chilled fingers of one hand around the can. Sinclair did indeed look nauseated. She was ghostly pale and swallowing regularly every few seconds, as if trying to keep her gorge down. She took a careful sip and swished, spitting out a mouthful of liquid to the side, then took a longer, deeper swallow.

He frowned as the stream splattered on a piece of yellowed paper on the floor, turning it pink-tinged. "You're bleeding? How'd that happen?"

"Yeah. Bit my cheek." She probed her inner cheek with her tongue and grimaced. "Ow. It's a nasty one, too. Must've done it after I hunted you down."

 _"… after I hunted you down."_

Danse dropped his head and sucked in a steadying breath. He'd had hours to try to come to terms with his identity, yet the slightest of reminders still had the power to blindside him and suck him right back into a whirlpool of torment _. He was a synth. Maxson had sent her to execute him. The rank he had been so proud of was no longer his. He was nothing._

Nora fumbled for his hands and squeezed them tightly. "Danse, no. Talk to me. I'm here for you," she urged.

"Just… give me a minute." It was safer to stare at the floor, to watch the now forgotten can of water roll under the desk, spilling its contents onto the concrete. He could sympathize – he felt just as empty. Just as discarded and worthless.

"Danse? Look at me." Nora's voice sounded thin and frightened and somehow far away.

 _Nora..._

 _Nora had defended him. Maxson was gone. He was still alive. She had saved him._

Danse took a deep steadying breath and focused his attention on her anxious face. The nearly painful pressure of her fingers clenched around his helped him concentrate, helped him think. If he could use her as his lifeline and get his head above the surface, he would be able to breathe again.

 _Focus on her. Recall what she told you._

 _"Synth or not, you're still yourself. You're still the Danse that I respect and trust."_

 _"… you're still yourself…"_

Slowly, slowly enough for her to evade his touch if she wished, Danse slid his hand around the back of her neck and tentatively stroked the prominent ridge of her cheekbone with his thumb. It somehow seemed like the right thing to do in that particular instant. This small gesture of gratitude was but a drop in the bucket against the very large debt he owed her. His eyes flicked over her features, looking for any hints of discomfort but found none. Was this… acceptable then? For him to touch her like this, so … intimately? Especially now, knowing what he was? Her eyes closed easily – trustingly – at the gentle touch and she covered his hand with her own.

When she had first arrived at the bunker and confirmed the truth of what she had learned, his true identity hadn't seemed to make a difference to her one bit. Her only thoughts were for his safety. For _him_ , not Paladin or synth. Just Danse. She hadn't rejected his touch, either - she actively sought it as she habitually did.

Furthermore... and perhaps most confusingly, she had kissed him that day. Twice. Unexpectedly, amazingly, specifically kissed _him_. Once before life as he knew it had ended, and once after. The Paladin and the synth. The man and the machine.

 _Was he right? Did she truly not care that he wasn't… human?_

There was only one way to confirm that very crucial, particular truth, and he was nervous as hell about it. Danse took a deep enough breath that he felt the seams of his uniform strain and blew it back out forcefully.

"Nora? Everything has changed now. I'm a synth." He wanted to gather himself and howl with all of the fury and pain that was roiling inside him, but what he saw in her eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. There, in the blue-gray of a stormy ocean, was the lifeline he was seeking.

Danse tipped her chin up and hunched down to look deeply into her face, much like she had done to him only minutes ago. There was no revulsion in her steady gaze, only acceptance. No hatred, only honesty. No fear or uneasiness, only hints of the bone-deep sadness he frequently saw lurking behind everything else. Then… warmth. Sympathy. Affection.

The truth he was seeking was right there in plain sight.

 _She had saved him again._

"So you're a synth." Nora's shoulders rolled in a nonchalant shrug. "I know _who_ you are, Danse. The what doesn't matter to me," she said softly.

Perhaps he _hadn't_ misjudged his instincts after all. He could believe her. He _would_ believe her.

Those same instincts were telling him he had no choice but to start seeing the world through a different set of lenses. Or… perhaps with no lenses at all? Just his own perspective, without the constant filter of the Brotherhood? It was a disquieting thought. There were so many unknown variables, the unstable gravitational field of emotion being the largest he could identify. Everything he experienced from now on would all boil down to the unreliable formula of cause and effect. What consequences would now arise if he did this, or said that?

Danse carefully observed the familiar face of his partner, who was calmly watching him in return. She had become his closest friend, far closer to him than Cutler had even been. It was patently obvious he had new boundaries to test and there was no better time like the present to begin. There was also no better person to reach out to than the woman he trusted unconditionally. Nora had just proven to him in the most crucial of ways that his trust had not been misplaced.

She was right there in front of him. She had fought ferociously for him. She supported him, even now. She _cared_ for him. She… had been willing to sacrifice herself for him. All of this for _him_. He would be able to rely on her - a constant, known factor - and work his way forward from there, with her help.

Danse slanted his head to the right and leaned forward incrementally. Perhaps it was time for another experiment? More cause and effect? He paused halfway to give her plenty of advance notice of his intention and plenty of time to avoid him. Her pupils were blown wide and she was frozen in place, which was either good or very, very bad. He was pinning all of his hopes on _good_. As he closed the gap between them and reverently brushed his lips across hers once, twice, her spiky, wet lashes fluttered shut. She raised both hands to cup his cheeks and sighed softly as he whispered "thank you" against her mouth and withdrew.

Danse bowed his head and braced his palms on the edge of the desk. He needed the support - the exquisite surge of relief that flooded his body was almost powerful enough to drop him to his knees. It would be an oddly appropriate gesture – after all, he had been ready to kneel in front of her for an altogether different reason only a half hour ago.

 _She had saved him._

"Danse?" The soft question of his name and the touch of her hand on his shoulder brought him out of his daze.

Gently, she tugged on his arm. "Sit next to me. Please. You're thinking too loudly and it's making both of our heads spin, I think."

The compassion in her face and voice was suddenly too much to bear; he had to avert his eyes. "I… yes. I suppose I am. I suddenly have quite a bit to think about."

"I know. I'll be right here to help you through it. I'm not going anywhere either."

 _I know._

Danse turned and sat heavily on the desk to the left of her, making it groan underneath them at the sudden additional weight. Nora scooted closer until she was pressed lightly against him from shoulder to hip to leg. Early on in their friendship, she had informed him that he had become her anchor; his presence helped to keep her centered and in control. She explained it was why she frequently sought him out. Doctor's orders, she had deadpanned, and not just out of obligation because he was her CO.

She had solemnly – and somewhat shyly – promised to observe the decorum appropriate for their respective ranks while in the presence of others if he'd allow her to lean on him when they were weren't. As it happened, they were quite often off on their own anyway; he'd been willing to make the exception and allow propriety to slide if it truly helped her keep her mental balance. Secretly, he had been immensely flattered that she thought that highly of him. Nora had grown close with Haylen and surprisingly enough, Proctor Teagan, but she never failed to turn to him first.

Ever since that day, Danse patiently allowed her to seek comfort in him however and whenever she needed. Sometimes it was nothing more than her hand lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary when she handed him a wrench, or her sitting on his bed with her eyes closed while he filed his evening reports. Other times, nothing would do but for him to wrap his arms securely around her and help her ride it out.

This time, Nora silently reached out to lace her fingers through his and tilted her head to rest it on his shoulder. He knew she was attempting to ground herself, attempting to will her heart back into a normal rhythm. She was breathing in and out through her nose evenly as Cade had taught her long ago; he found himself semi-consciously falling into the same measured rhythm along with her.

Danse permitted himself to rest his cheek lightly on the crown of her head. Allowing himself to reciprocate her gesture was, as it turned out, not a difficult decision to make. He now recognized that he, too, could tether himself to her - loosely for now until he became accustomed to the unfamiliar concept. It was a strange feeling, but accepting the undeniable fact that her comfort and support were necessary for his own well-being - and yes, _happiness_ \- felt like a homecoming of sorts. He _hadn't_ lost everything. He still had her, and that was a hell of a leg up in the new, very uncertain world he'd been plunged into.

The thought occurred to him that perhaps all this time she had been wordlessly offering him comfort as well and he just hadn't realized it. Yes, it would be well within her generous nature for her to do so. Protocol would have prevented him from responding before, but now? After a kiss like the one they had just shared? There was no shame or weakness to be found in accepting what she was offering, only… humanity. Lazily, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of hers and allowed the easy, companionable rapport they shared to fill him and blunt the edge of his pain.

Nora sighed, a long and slow exhalation of contentment that seemed to originate in the tips of her toes. It was such a decadent sound it tugged the corner of his mouth upwards. "Feeling a little better?"

"I think so. Yeah. You?"

Danse's world was still tilted unrecognizably, but not unbearably so at the moment. "Affirmative."

Nora squeezed his hand affectionately. "Glad to hear it. Now, what's our next move, my friend?"

Danse reluctantly lifted his head and looked around the dimly lit, filthy room. It and the bunker below made up his new home. "I didn't plan on spending the rest of my days at this old listening post, but it'll have to do. It'll take some work - a hell of a lot of work - to make it habitable." He shrugged in resignation. "I've got nothing but time, I suppose."

At the very least, bringing order back to the abandoned facility would keep his thoughts and hands occupied for a little while. He'd worry about the _what next_ when he bumped up against it. With his particular skill set, he knew he had a myriad of options available to him.

Danse nudged her with his knee and looked down at the top of her dark head. "Besides, you're still going to need my help. The areas around the airport and police station are off-limits to me now, but the rest of the Commonwealth isn't. I'll be damned if I'm going to let you wander around out there alone."

He wouldn't be able to assist her with any missions associated with the Brotherhood, but she kept busy enough in between with the ever constant flow of requests from the loose network of Minutemen affiliated settlements. Those entreaties seemed to come through via radio communication daily since her people had regained control of the ancient fortification named Fort Independence. To her immense credit, Nora was always amenable to helping anyone who asked, not just the Minutemen or Brotherhood. That ready willingness to assist others was one of the traits he admired most in her.

However, he realized she may have other plans in mind where he was involved. Thoughtfully, Danse tacked on the qualification of: "If you'll still have me, that is. I understand if you'd rather travel alone now, given my present situation."

She may choose not to have him accompany her, and he would completely accept her decision if that were the case. His newly discovered identity was a rather large liability, after all.

Nora straightened abruptly and gaped at him like a fish for a moment, then slumped forward precariously, pressing her face into her knees. Alarmed at the sudden collapse, Danse gripped her shoulders and drew her back upright against his side, only to see she was not distressed as he expected. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.

She choked out, "If you'll still have me, he says. Like you have a _choice,_ bonehead."

Nora had a hand clapped across her mouth. She was laughing. _Laughing_. What on earth could she possibly find so humorous? The reasoning behind his added provision was not that difficult to comprehend. Simply put, he was now the enemy and she was not. His back might as well have a bright red bull's-eye painted on it, and he'd be _damned_ if he'd allow himself to endanger her life, even if it meant rusting away – or whatever gen 3 synths did – in this listening post without her companionship.

"Are you… okay?" Danse asked stiffly. He was somewhat piqued - this was definitely _not_ the response he was anticipating. Not after he'd considerately left her a gracious way to back out, and especially not after the rather special and extremely personal series of moments they had just shared.

The hand wasn't working very well for her; spurts of laughter leaked from behind it, causing her shoulders to shake. Her eyes were still dancing when she was able to swallow her amusement long enough to respond.

She eyed him apologetically and said, "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you, not at all. Okay, maybe a little. Of course I want you with me, Danse. That was the point of the whole shitshow we just went through with Maxson. You're all mine now and I'm a greedy little thing."

Nora shook her head in disbelief and took in the disarray around them. "This is just all so _surreal_ , though. You're… well, y'know. Please believe me, I'm totally okay with it. You're here and I'm here and we're together. But I -" she poked her thumb into her chest "- shit, I don't know _what_ I am right now. Think I've gone off the deep end again. Pulling a gun on Maxson? I _must_ be insane. Ten points from the Russian judge for sticking the fucking landing though."

She dissolved into helpless giggles once more and dropped her forehead heavily on his shoulder.

Danse snorted at her antics and slid his arm around her quaking shoulders. Her sense of the ridiculous was clearly still operating at peak efficiency, even if her self-control appeared to have fled completely. Well, laughter was an effective and safe way to release stress, at least. The way she matter-of-factly said _"You're all mine now"_ definitely soothed his ruffled feathers and perhaps gave him some food for later thought. And the gun in question had been part of the desperate, final gambit that ended up saving him from execution.

Dryly, Danse replied, "I'm not sure I understand your Russian reference, but I'll tell you what you _are_ : brave. Hell, you were terrifying. All five feet two inches and one hundred pounds of you."

She playfully growled at him, and then bumped against him companionably. "Aren't you glad I'm on your side? Besides, friends take care of each other no matter what." Her eyes flew wide open and she straightened as if electrocuted. "Friends. Oh, shit! Haylen! What about Haylen?"

Danse considered his answer and shook his head slowly when he arrived at a conclusion. If the network of scribes on board the Prydwen and in the field knew one thing, it was how to dissemble and cover their asses. Haylen - and anyone else who had possibly helped her inform him - would be fine. He suspected at least one other person had to have been involved.

"I don't think Maxson knew she was involved, so she'll be safe. I'll contact her and let her know what happened here. It's the least I can do. I owe her - I owe you _both_ \- my life."

"Are you _sure_ Maxson won't come back? Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you'll put up a fight if he does. Not against him, and that terrifies me. I'm in no shape right now to defend you." Doubt and fear were creeping back into her face and voice.

Firmly, Danse said, "No. He won't be back, now or ever."

The thought pierced through him like a flechette round. The last two decades of his life were just… gone. Evaporated as if they never happened. As far as he knew, they hadn't. No, that couldn't be right. Cutler and Rivet City had been real. Krieg certainly had been. And Arthur Maxson had been a constant, deeply interwoven part of that life ever since he had arrived at the Citadel a scared, lonely young boy.

He blinked and looked back down at Nora when she slid her arm through his comfortingly. Strangely enough, remembering the boy Maxson had been helped settle him. Whether his memories were real or implanted, and whether he was exiled or not, he still belonged to the Brotherhood. As such, it was his duty to advise her as if he was still her commanding officer.

"Listen, Nora. You really ought to report back to the Prydwen. Maxson's expecting you. You're still a Knight in the Brotherhood of Steel," he soberly reminded her.

She shifted uncomfortably on the desktop. "Am I, though? He'd be well within his rights to have me executed for treason, Danse. You know him best. What will I be walking into?"

Danse shook his head sharply. "If I had the slightest premonition you'd be in _any_ kind of danger, I wouldn't let you go, even if you wanted to. Period."

Despite the treasonous and shockingly vicious insubordination Nora had displayed, the Elder genuinely admired when someone stuck to their principles and stood their ground against him. Not many were brave enough to do so, and it quite possibly would be a mark in her favor that she had, if Danse knew the man as well as he thought he did.

Danse sighed. "He may very well decide to reassign you. It's a possibility you'll need to be prepared for."

"Reassign me? You mean like to Waypoint Echo or something?" Nora wrinkled her nose.

"Nothing that drastic. Remember, Maxson can't publicly acknowledge any outcome other than my death at your hands. If he even subtly punished you in any way, people would start to ask questions. No, you'll most likely be reassigned under Proctor Ingram. Getting Prime operational is still priority number one for the Brotherhood, especially since you and I secured his payload"

Nora smiled wanly and leaned against him. "Ingram, huh? Well, she's definitely not as good looking as you." She sighed heavily. "She probably won't put up with as much of my shit as you did either, will she?"

 _Good looking? She thought he was… ?_

Danse felt his cheekbones redden; he looked down and fiddled with a frayed thread on his thigh. "Ah, roger that. Expect her to run you ragged. I allowed you altogether too much latitude, especially where the Minutemen were concerned."

She shot him an inscrutable sideways glance. "You made damn sure we saw to our Brotherhood obligations first. I wasn't about to argue with a man actually _wearing_ a can of whoopass."

Danse closed his eyes to try to gather a bit of patience, then sternly said, "You're sidestepping the point I'm trying to make. I'll repeat myself: you need to report in. The earlier, the better."

Nora shook her head sharply and leaned away from him with an expression of incredulity plain on her face. "Are you _serious_? No. Hell no, Danse. There's no way I'm leaving you alone tonight. What kind of shitty friend would I be if I did?"

 _Of course. He should've known she'd refuse._

"A responsible one. One concerned about her career," he returned wryly. "It's advisable not to push your luck any farther with Maxson. Your concern for my well-being is very much appreciated, but this location is secure. I'll be safe enough, as long as I don't stray far away. If I can repair those turrets…"

Constantly scanning his immediate surroundings had become a well-honed, automatic reflex. Danse belatedly recalled the condition the outer turrets were in; it was quite obvious a repair job wasn't sufficient to resurrect puddles of slagged metal and melted wiring. Nora had taken them out with a vengeance.

"Ah. Well, never mind."

Nora made a singularly rude noise with tongue and pursed lips. "Maxson told me to say my goodbyes. That's what I'm doing, except I'm not saying goodbye. And I'm totally not sorry about those damn turrets. They were between me and you and _kinda_ shooting at me."

He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration with her characteristic stubbornness. "Yes. Perhaps you hadn't noticed, but they tend to do that. Never mind, I'll think of something." Perhaps he could jury-rig the turrets in the bunker below.

Nora flicked a brow upwards and casually examined her fingernails. "Better not be thinking about the turrets down below or those Protectrons you set loose. Not sorry about them, either. Yao guai's your fault, though. You could've tamed him and ridden him into battle."

Danse groaned and raised his hands in defeat. Her ability to swing from mature woman to impish adolescent in a fraction of a second continually astounded him. The way she was grinning at him was positively diabolical.

Nora relented and patted him on the knee. "All right, don't get huffy. I'll stop picking on you. Look, we have plenty of spare parts back in Sanctuary from all that scrap you've been rather unwillingly helping me haul up there. Yes, I said unwillingly." She eyed him reproachfully when he opened his mouth to defend himself.

 _Damn. She did have a point._

"The Castle should have something I can send over in the meantime," she finished.

It was still inadvisable to involve the Minutemen in his current situation. There was no telling what might happen if any sort of link between and he and the other faction was discovered. Stubbornly, he shook his head. "I can't accept-"

Just as stubbornly she cut him off and retorted, "You don't have a choice, buddy. Let it be known for the record - this bunker and its lone occupant are now under the protection of the General of the Commonwealth Minutemen. _This_ general refuses to let you go unprotected. I don't care what you say - I don't trust Maxson any farther than I can throw him. How far d'you think I can throw him, Danse?"

Danse snorted. The mental image of this miniscule woman attempting to wrestle the burly Elder was ludicrous. "Given your distinct lack of stature, not far. Fine, your point is taken. If it'll keep you from getting a hernia by trying to lift Maxson's little finger, I'll accept your offer. I thought you said you'd quit picking on me."

She shoved him affectionately. "Crybaby."

Danse elbowed her right back. "Harpy."

Nora's grin grew even wider and his axis righted slightly. Some things would never change, her wickedly sharp tongue and obstinacy being two of them. The banter did much to lighten his mood.

She craned her neck around to look at the elevator behind them. "Seriously, though. How'd you find out about this place? Haylen told me she picked it as a fallback location. It's perfect, better than the police station even."

Danse was a little surprised at the unexpected question, but gratified. Haylen had certainly done exceedingly well when she brought the site to his attention. "I had no idea it was this secure, honestly. All we had to go off of were a few pre-war references in Proctor Quinlan's files before we left the Citadel for our mission."

"Quinlan's a fucking twat," she muttered. "Just see if I bring him any more issues of Grognak."

"Language," he said warningly. Exile or not, he wouldn't allow her to disparage a senior… ah, hell. Who was he kidding? Quinlan _was_ a twat, as she so... eloquently put it. A pompous one. Not that he'd _ever_ admit that to her.

Suddenly, she leaned away from him and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Just a second, you sneaky, sneaky man. How'd you override the elevator controls? There must be another terminal down below."

Danse nodded. "There is. How's that sneaky? I'm not following." She had him thoroughly confused with her accusation.

"Cracking that terminal was hard, even for me. You bypassed the security and reactivated the elevator lockdown from another terminal, all while running for your fucking life." She looked utterly astonished. "I didn't think you paid much attention to me when I was playing scribe. How close were you really watching?"

The more difficult the terminal, the farther the tip of her pink tongue peeked out in concentration. She'd crow with delight and shimmy her whole body in a pleased little wriggle when she finally got in. It was … adorable. It was a word he used grudgingly, but there was no other word that suited.

"I _always_ pay close attention to you."

Danse felt his face flush hotly as he realized how forceful his rebuttal had been. Nora hummed and pressed her nose into his shoulder, but not before he caught sight of the tiny, delighted smile on her face. That smile heated him thoroughly.

He cleared his throat and doggedly continued before he put his other foot in his mouth as well. He only hoped the fiery sensation in his face would recede soon. "Once entry is gained into the terminal, luck seems to be an important factor in the initial selection. After that, it's only a matter of eliminating possibilities in a logical manner. More accurately, using the failed attempts to pinpoint the correct keyword before the system locks down. Certain data strings seem to reset the system or remove dummy choices. It… didn't seem hard."

Skeptically, Nora raised a brow. "It didn't seem hard? All right, showoff. I refuse to let myself be impressed until you tell me how you got past them." She folded her arms across her chest challengingly and jerked her chin outwards at the two destroyed turrets.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Easy. I approached from the rear and dropped down between the turrets. I was inside before they could fire. I'm surprised you didn't think of it. Think of all the ammo you wasted destroying them." he said mockingly. He was definitely not above needling her.

Nora tipped her head back and laughed, then slid to her feet and extended her hands to him. It was easy for him to engulf her small hands in his large ones and allow her to tug him to his feet. Well, try to. "Okay, I give. Let's go see what we have to work with down below, Grognak. You might not have noticed, but I'm _kind_ of an expert at post-apocalyptic interior design."


	5. Chapter 5

TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of suicidal ideation

* * *

Life in the post-apocalyptic wasteland had instilled a natural alarm clock in her, one attuned to the rising and setting of the sun. As Nora slowly flutter kicked up through the blackness of sleep into the gray of consciousness she became immediately and intuitively aware it was early morning, sometime around sunrise. Danger was the driving element behind this wakefulness; it was safest to travel earlier in the morning, when the cold-blooded species such as radscorpions and deathclaws were only now starting to emerge from burrow and den to bask in the weak, late April sunlight. Danse had educated her on that useful little snippet of Commonwealth biology, much as he had taught her the multitude of other skills a pre-war lawyer would require to survive and attempt to thrive in a knockdown, drag out, irradiated kind of world.

Nora's brows drew together with discontent even before she attempted to crack open her tired, sleep-sandy eyes. If it were early morning, that meant it would all too soon be time to start her journey back to the airport. It meant she would have to say goodbye to the man she hadn't been separated from for more than an hour or two at a time in months. The mere thought provoked a fiery and fierce rejection deep in the pit of her stomach. She didn't _want_ to leave him. He _needed_ her. It was time to repay him for all that he'd done to keep her on the opposite side of fucking nuts.

She opened her eyes, fully expecting Danse to have already rolled out of bed, or at least what often served as a bed these days. Much to her wonder, he was still... asleep? Yes, yes he was. How about _that_. He was lying on his left side facing her, with head resting in the crook of his elbow for lack of a better pillow and bent knee extended towards her to keep himself from rolling. His face was miraculously free of the strain of the previous day and his chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths.

Slowly, she reached out a hand to re-cover his bare arm and shoulder against the damp chill of the early morning air, but thought better of the impulse. He was such a light sleeper as it was; she feared the touch would wake him. Danse needed - deserved - as much uninterrupted and peaceful rest as he could get.

Normally, he was out of bed an hour or better before she was, if they had the uncommon luxury of sleeping together - that is, at the same time. Concurrently, instead of divvying up the overnight hours into watches. He would've awoken, yawned and stretched in a joint popping, full body extension, tended to his personal needs, and then if they'd scrounged any, he'd have thoughtfully brewed a pot of coffee in the beat up percolator she insisted on carrying with them. He would've set her favorite chipped blue enamel mug somewhere near her head to allow the aroma to pull her out of sleep while he wisely waited out of the striking distance of her morning ire with his own cup.

Not that she'd ever lash out at him. Not anymore, at least. Not since he'd tamed her - because honestly, no other word applied - and rebuilt the post-war version of her from the ground up. Nora 2.0. A new Nora for the new era. Nora Sinclair, now with added radiation. She snorted mentally at the sheer ridiculousness of the tangential early morning thoughts.

Honestly though, Danse should consider himself lucky that she was so fond of him, as she was most definitely _not_ a morning person. Or an afternoon or evening person, now that she thought about it. She might just be a night person though - the kind that curled up in front of a merrily crackling campfire with a full belly, a bottle of whiskey, and a good man at her side, as she'd done last night. Late into the night and a third of the way through the shared bottle, he'd even allowed himself to relax a little. The whiskey had been her idea - and okay, fine, she drank most of it - but the slow, uncertain way he'd slid his arm around her shoulders and shyly tugged her against his side had not.

 _Baby steps, baby._

Nora smiled sleepily and snuggled a little deeper into the scratchy warmth of the wool blanket until only her eyes peeped out over the top. She had the golden opportunity literally in front of her to simply observe Danse. To watch her favorite person on earth sleeping, all cozy and safe and _alive_. Warm and breathing - and yeah - maybe a little more than human, but as she'd told him that just didn't matter to her. She started to sigh with satisfaction and relief and only barely stopped herself from making the noise. Sleep. He needed sleep.

Danse was resting easily now, yet she vaguely remembered him waking abruptly at some point in the middle of the night. Hadn't he or was she imagining it? No, she remembered reaching out to rub his heaving, sweat dampened shoulder comfortingly but could recall nothing beyond that. He must have fallen back into sound sleep with minimal difficulty. Perhaps the liquor they'd consumed had helped with that, or maybe it was the safety and security of the location. Could be the poor guy was just that exhausted, period. Some nights were easier for him than others, and she of all people could certainly sympathize with that. There had been more than one night where their respective demons had kept them both from sleep and driven them back onto the moonlit road by unspoken mutual consent.

Nora shifted quietly to ease the aching strain on hip and shoulder that came from sleeping on cold concrete. Bones that were used to the enveloping, plush comfort of pillow top mattresses and down comforters would never become accustomed to anything less. The lack of comfort didn't seem to bother Danse. Never had, as far as she could tell. He could catnap or bivouac just about anywhere, even standing up in his power armor as she had discovered much to her amusement.

Very rarely, however, was she able to catch him in such an utter state of relaxation and slumber as this. Matter of fact, she'd only caught him like this one other time and she'd stared at him like a fool then, too. Seeing him so unexpectedly calm and at peace after the trauma of the day before fascinated her. _He_ fascinated her, inexplicably more now that the truth of his nature had come to light.

Danse's complex and deep personality was as tightly spiraled and segmented as a nautilus. Or maybe an onion? Nora grinned behind the blanket - he would definitely prefer the nautilus comparison over the onion. Mollusk, vegetable, or man, each gradual layer he revealed to her gave her new insight and perspective into what made him tick, although she wasn't anywhere near the center of him. Not yet, but she meant to get there. Even though there was still much for her to discover, she was profoundly touched that this seemingly taciturn individual, the lone wolf who deliberately kept himself aloof from others, trusted her enough to let his guard down and reveal the highly personal details and experiences that he had thus far.

Nora scowled faintly. Of course, it didn't dilute or alter her loyalty and affection of him in the least by acknowledging that there were aspects of Danse's personality and mindset that she just _didn't_ like, namely his tendency to rather piously and unimaginatively fall back on Brotherhood doctrine far too often. He'd demonstrated a thoughtful, independent ability to think outside the Brotherhood box but often chose not to, much to her bafflement and annoyance.

Goodneighbor became a prime example of the conflict that could still flare back to life between them, in what she privately called the Battle of Scollay Square. He'd scornfully looked down his Roman nose at the people and location enough times that she'd finally had enough. As a result of his disdain, she'd blown up and flat out refused to bring him with her whenever she needed to stop there. She'd even vetoed his request to accompany her when she brought the Courser chip to Amari for her opinion. Nope, she'd brought Nick instead, and then accepted the hospitality Mayor John Hancock had kindly offered afterwards. Danse had barely talked to her for three whole days after that, and when they finally faced off, Dogmeat had slunk away and deserted them both for a while.

Hmph. So had Haylen and Rhys, now that she thought about it.

Nora took a deep, steadying breath in through her nose.

 _Right. Moving on._

On the other end of the spectrum, she'd quickly learned that yet another fault of his multifaceted disposition was his blind _fucking_ inability to see the good in himself, which almost pissed her off even more than his bigotry. Almost, but not quite. For someone of her previous profession, the intolerance and hatred was a lot for her to swallow and look past, even though she cared so deeply for him. She'd see glimmers of hope, like with the situations involving Kent Connolly and Billy Peabody, then he'd turn around and...

 _MOVING ON._

Right.

Danse didn't hesitate to point out his many faults and mistakes, often enough that she automatically geared herself to play devil's advocate in order to highlight his better qualities and decisions in return. Unmercifully bludgeon him with them, really. For such an outwardly confident soldier, his inner self-confidence was at an absolute nadir. It had become a goal of hers to boost him up, sometimes by pure force and stubbornness alone. She knew when she'd scored a direct hit by the way he'd clam up and look at her sideways for a moment before grudgingly acknowledging the validity of whatever she'd just pointed out to him.

Now, though? Nora drew her knees towards her chest. If she could shoulder this crushing burden for him, she would in a heartbeat. Danse didn't deserve this pain - any of it, whereas she was used to the heavy weight. The bleakness in his voice and eye totally decimated her. The despair he felt was present in the furrow between his strong brows and downward curve of his expressive mouth, the dejected way he hung his head, and the slump of his normally proud shoulders and back. It was obvious in the way he stared at the ground and the way he alternately knotted his fingers together or splayed them through his hair.

She'd done her best to help him through the previous evening and night, but would the little she'd been able to manage be enough to keep him going while she was away? God, she hoped so. Now that he knew he was a synth - one of the very enemies he'd dedicated his life to eradicating - he'd be doubting every single iota that he was made of. Sure, he'd put on a brave face for her, but more than once during the evening she'd caught him staring blankly at nothing until she gently regained his attention and soothed or otherwise distracted him. She was certainly not fooled by his continual reassurances that he was fine. _Bullshit_ he was fine.

It was her responsibility to remind him of the person he truly was - good and bad and everything in between - but she couldn't do that if she wasn't _fucking_ there with him. Nora chewed her lip in silent frustration and shoved the suddenly too-suffocating blanket away from her face. Now was not the time to leave him but he would insist. He'd made it quite clear that he expected her to report back to the airport first thing in the morning to rejoin the war effort.

From certain hints he'd dropped - and even things he'd said outright last night - it was also clear he still considered himself a part of the Brotherhood of Steel, exile or not. His persistent, and to her eyes, extremely unwarranted devotion caught her attention uncomfortably, like a hangnail dragging across lace. Warning flags were _flying_. She was certain his dedication would only lead to trouble, resulting in heartbreak for him and for herself as well due to how thoroughly attached she had become to him.

How could she possibly divert his attention though? There was no easy or quick fill for the gaping hole in his chest. The Brotherhood had been his life - no, his _reason_ for living - for the last twenty years. Nora was certain that losing that life felt just as cruel and excruciating to him as the obliteration of her family and world had been to her. Only time would tell if he'd be able to recover.

Sadly, she looked at his sleeping face. No, all she could do was support Danse unconditionally until he regained his bearings. Nora absolutely intended on being with him as much as she could, no matter what Maxson or Danse or anybody else had to say about it. Arthur Maxson was no fool - he'd know whose company she was keeping when she suddenly started vanishing in between missions. She didn't care what Arthur fucking Maxson thought, though. He'd quickly find out what would happen if he _tried_ to forbid her from seeing Danse. Danse needed her, and come hell or high water, she'd be there for him just as he'd been for her.

The ghost of a humorless smile touched her lips. Danse would start to heal eventually with her very determined and unwavering support. He'd simply have no choice in the matter. She'd borrow some pages from his playbook, the very one he'd successfully used on her, with its alternating chapters of buoyant encouragement and unyielding drill sergeant bullheadedness. He'd wearily lamented her stubbornness more than a few times throughout their association; maybe he'd come to appreciate that flaw when she turned it around and used it to make him whole again.

And once the Institute was dealt with, they could start to build a life together free of …

… _Once the Institute was dealt with..._

 _Shit. SHIT._

Mercilessly, Nora forced herself to consider the final outcome of the phrase 'once the Institute was dealt with.' The ramifications extended far beyond the wistful picket fence daydream of Nora-and-Danse. She'd _never_ have that kind of life again.

Dealing with the Institute meant nothing more and nothing less than a thorough extermination. An extinction event. Maxson's gigantic war machine was almost ready, both in body and in spirit. Mobilization for the final push had swung into high gear with the arrival of Liberty Prime's payload. Even though she'd only been present at the airport for a short time before turning on her armored heels and flying after Danse, she'd felt the difference in the air, had seen it in Ingram and Scara's faces. Ingram had informed her all that remained was to restart Prime's nuclear engine, whatever that might entail. If Danse was correct and she was reassigned underneath the Proctor, she'd be finding out in only a few short hours.

 _And then? What would happen after that?_

One: Maxson would not fail to crush the Institute under his booted heel. There would be no subjugation, only annihilation.

Two: When the Institute was destroyed, its Director would encounter the same fate.

Three: Shaun would die. Shaun would _die_ because of her.

How could she possibly survive that outcome? Would she even want to? She'd long ago nudged over the first domino in a chain of events that would ultimately end with the death of her only child. Why _shouldn't_ she seek to join Shaun in death? She'd certainly deserve it.

Suicide had been a faithful companion at the forefront of her mind since the day she'd shaken the arm bones of its previous owner from her Pip-Boy and punched the vault elevator button. It had guided her unresisting figure to lie at the foot of Nate's cryopod in the dead of night. It had led her by the hand into the nursery and raised that hand to gently spin the lopsided mobile with the blotches of rust that looked like blood. It ushered her past the Red Rocket, through the ruins of Concord, and gave her a firm shove between the shoulder blades. If she was reluctant to die by her own hand, well, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Passive suicide by wasteland, only that method had failed too.

Cruelly, Nora twisted the knife in her own chest. She _deserved_ every molecule of agony she could inflict on herself. Shaun's blood was on her hands already, dark red and slick and heavy, so heavy. She could _taste_ it. Crimson handprints stained her cheeks in her nightmares. Bloody streaks marred the soft, powder-scented flesh of the infant cradled in her dream-arms. Baby blue eyes opened, but those dream eyes weren't a milky soft blue anymore - they were glowing yellow and terrifying and _betrayed_.

 _What was the name for a mother who killed her child?_

 _Mother? Don't you love me?_

Nora squeezed her eyes shut against the wave of pain that slammed into her like a bullet and took her breath away. _God_ _no not her baby not Shaun._ She arched her back and took a deep breath through her nose, struggling against the agony that sliced her into ribbons. Mentally, she wailed the only name that had the power to save her from herself.

Christ, how she needed him, even now. She'd never stop needing him. It was far too easy to get sucked back into the supermassive black hole of her grief. She needed to wake him and cling to him and… and...

 _Breathe, just... breathe. Danse was right there._

She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms and focused her entire concentration on his unique scent, imagined it enveloping her in a protective sphere as warm and comforting as his arms. Nora inhaled deeply of the rich-earthy-velvety aroma that was reminiscent of the darker base notes of patchouli, blended with clean, virile sweat and the sharp metallic accent of power armor and discharged laser cartridges.

Her mental voice morphed into a curious fusion of her own contralto voice and his deeper baritone, as it often did in her many moments of crisis.

 _Take another breath._

 _Again. Do it._

Danse smelled like absolute heaven to her - pure potent masculinity with the psychological overtones of safety and comfort and dependability that were now inextricably linked in her mind to his scent. He was aromatherapy at its finest in a world where the concept didn't even exist anymore.

 _Good. Look at him now. He's right there. He's right_ there _. See?_

Obediently - desperately - she opened her eyes and fastened her gaze on his sleeping face. Danse's long dark lashes lay in perfect arcs against the paler skin of his cheeks, shadowed by the heavy brows that were all too often knit together instead of even and tranquil as they presently were. His cheekbones were high and proud, beveling down into strong, scar gouged planes. The finely chiseled jaw and chin were veiled by the soft prickliness of his beard, but she knew the feel of them, the marble-sculpted angles of them by heart.

 _Good girl. Keep going._

Nora deliberately licked her bottom lip to invoke another aspect of him - the fresh, incandescent memory of the ardent responsiveness of his lips and blazing heat of his mouth that were both now indelibly etched into the same niche in her chest. She'd never forget the taste and touch of him as long as she lived. She longed to repeat the experience over and over and over until she couldn't think and could only feel. _He_ could make her forget.

The invisible fist that was crushing her windpipe eased, allowing a full, shuddering inhalation of life-sustaining oxygen.

 _More_.

Danse was her bulwark against the darkness that threatened to overwhelm her on a daily basis. He was her brooding, intense fallen angel with the resonant, dark honey voice to match. Fate, kismet, Lady Luck, more-than-just-a-dog Dogmeat - one or all had guided her to collapse directly at his feet in Cambridge. She hadn't committed suicide. She hadn't died by other means. She had found _him_.

Nora blinked away her tears and drank him in with wide, thirsty eyes, pushing herself up on one elbow to get a better view of him. He often had the uncanny ability to tune into her thoughts as if she were broadcasting them aloud. Couldn't he hear how much she needed him right now?

 _Shh, shh. You're doing fine. Just let him sleep._

His ribcage continued to rise and fall with slow, even breaths, each inhalation causing the thin cotton tank top he wore under his uniform to lovingly stretch and mold itself to his torso. Despite her anguish, a soft sigh rose from her chest and slid out of her throat at the sight. Nora snatched her hand back halfway to him; she hadn't even realized it had reached out. Danse was truly the most bone-meltingly beautiful man she'd ever seen, from the flexion of ankle as he took his boots off to the frequently rumpled soft darkness of his hair. Every damn thing in between too, and there was a hell of a lot between head and toe to appreciate. Enough to cause sensations in her that had lain dormant for centuries to catch up with the rest of her body and thaw once again.

How had she not realized … this before yesterday? _Any_ of this? She was drowning in a flood of sudden awareness. All of the times she'd sought comfort and reassurance from him... All of the times she'd brushed his shoulder with her fingertips or rested her forehead between his shoulder blades… All of the times he'd gathered her tightly against him in his strong arms...

Jesus. She loved him. She _loved_ him.

 _Fuck_. _This wasn't supposed to happen._

 _Breathe. In and out._

 _Again._

She closed her eyes briefly in defeat. How had one horrible, life-defining, life- _changing_ moment completely altered the way she felt about him? In her absolute panic and grief at the threat of losing him, the blinding realization of how much she truly, thoroughly loved him had cleaved her into two separate entities, as Robespierre's guillotine had likewise split Marie Antoinette apart. She had not died as the unlucky queen had in her moment of terror. She had instead been reborn into the before and the after, for the second time in her life. Nora divided by nuclear holocaust divided by Danse-the-synth.

Right from the moment Danse had scooped her up in his arms and carried her onboard the Prydwen, she'd started to develop a strong attachment to him. Her affection for him had never strayed beyond that level, though - her feelings for him were always platonic, never romantic. Her overwhelming grief, rage, and guilt prevented anything else.

Now though? After Danse had righted her and unintentionally set her on this path himself? After Cupid in the absurd guise of Arthur Maxson had unloaded his minigun directly into her heart?

Oh lord, was she in trouble. This breakneck, consuming love twisted and pulled her stomach into inside out figure eights. It made her palms itch with hot, prickly sweat and her spine erupt in chilled gooseflesh. How on earth was she supposed to concentrate around him? Or act, for fuck's sake? She was long past the days of wistful sighing and heart doodling and fluttering lashes of an unrequited schoolgirl crush. She had matured into a woman with all of the confidence, desire, and tactical knowledge on how to wage the most delicate yet resolute of wars in the pursuit of a fully explored partnership, complete happiness, and mind-blowing orgasms.

She was a woman deeply, irrevocably, _fiercely_ in love. She wanted Danse - all of him. Every last inch, breath, and word. He was worth fighting for in any arena.

Yet…

There was always a _yet_. Always a caveat. This one was very important and carried the same sensation as being doused with a bucket of ice-cold water.

The only thing that could and would halt her in her tracks was fear. Fear of pushing their friendship too far. Fear of chasing him away. _Fear of him not feeling the same way._

Danse was vulnerable and confused. It… would be best not to dwell on what she couldn't have right now, and in fact may never have. Even though she was less than a foot away from him, there was too much standing between them to contemplate any advancement in their relationship. Elder Arthur Maxson and the Brotherhood of Steel. Her responsibilities to the Minutemen. Shaun and the rest of the Institute. Danse himself...

From what she'd learned from conversations with him, Cutler had been the only person in his life that had held any kind of importance besides Krieg and Maxson. With some not-so discreet, blatantly curious questioning, she found out that Haylen hadn't known of any other kind of attachments, casual or otherwise. It was quite possible that Danse willingly chose not to enter into personal relationships. If that were the case, she'd have to content herself with just being by his side as a friend. She'd have to chalk up his response to her as nothing more than heat of a very intense moment and carry on. After all, she'd been the one to throw herself at him. Right?

The singsong voice of the tiny devil on her shoulder taunted her. _Can't hide how you feel for-ev-er. He knows you too well._

The angel on the other shoulder flicked the devil off.

Suddenly, Nora had to touch him. She needed him too much. She _felt_ too much, and even though he was the source of all these wild new feelings, he was still her cornerstone. That would never change, no matter what. Cautiously, she extended a single finger and oh-so-softly stroked the back of his hand where it lay between their bodies. He didn't wake.

 _Okay. This is okay._

Nora settled herself back down into the blanket and eased her fingers underneath his palm, taking care not to squeeze or jar him in any way. The depth of emotion that she felt for the man in front of her… My _god_... Nora thought she'd never experience even remotely similar again. Not after witnessing the distinctive pyrocumulus cloud that destroyed life as she knew it. Not after... Nate.

Now that she _knew_ , she wanted more, so much more. She wanted to bury herself in his arms and breathe him in again, or better yet worm her way inside his ribcage right next to his steadily beating heart. She wanted to love him and love with him until they were completely merged together - mind, body, and soul. Until nothing was left of the singular her and him but _them_ for a brief, shared, exquisite moment.

 _Breathe. Just breathe._

 _Moving… oh god... moving on._

Nora inhaled, counted to three, and slowly let the air back out. This would do for now. It would _have_ to do. She let her eyes drift shut. Even asleep, he was able to soothe and ground her. She was safe, she was warm, and she had her Paladin - well, ex-Paladin, if one was seeking accuracy - next to her. These three items - safewarmDanse - made up the perfect trifecta of satisfied needs for the modern woman living in the post-apocalyptic world.

* * *

Perhaps it had been a minute, maybe an hour, but when Nora next opened her eyes, Danse was already awake. He was awake, propped up on one elbow, and watching her closely. From the slight puffiness under his eyes and the yet-unsmoothed way his hair was sticking up in a ruff at the back of his head, it seemed he had woken up fairly recently.

To see him looking at her face so intently made her uncomfortable in a did-I-let-anything-slip-out-while-I-was-sleeping kind of way, but she couldn't fault him for the action. Hadn't she just done the same thing? Turnabout is fair play, after all. Just in case he saw _something_ , she lowered her gaze to… shit, no, not his chest. Blanket. The blanket was safe.

The overlapping, nebulous border between sleep and consciousness was a very slippery slope indeed, when one had something to hide. All of the thoughts and emotions that Nora honestly meant to keep disguised from him rather unfairly slithered out of the neat box she had locked them in like so many unruly snakes. They tumbled and jostled their way down the back of her throat in an attempt to make themselves known all at once in the form of various dangerous declarations and even more dangerous requests.

 _I need you._

 _I love you._

 _Please, fuck me senseless? Wouldn't take long. Not with you._

She nipped the tip of her tongue sharply to keep any of those wayward phrases from escaping her lips and hastily swallowed them all back down. Now was neither the time nor the place, even though her body was screaming at her that yes, yes it was. Wasn't sketchy self-control a wonderful thing?

"You ok?" Danse raised a single, skeptical brow and narrowed his eyes.

She was a fool to think she could keep anything hidden from him of all people. He, who knew her from the inside out and outside in. He of the keen eye and even keener instincts.

"Yeah. Hi. Uh, good morning. And stuff." That should be safe enough, even if she blurted the words out a little too quickly and suspiciously for her own good. Even if she sounded like a freaking idiot.

 _What the hell, Nora?_

A small frown dented his forehead; he proceeded to examine her face quite thoroughly. "Your eyes and nose are red. You've been crying."

 _Well, shit._

Nora rolled her shoulders defensively. "Yeah. Bad dream." It was something in the same general vicinity as the truth. Then, just to make sure… "I didn't wake you, did I?"

He shook his head slowly, still frowning, but his eyes had softened at her half-truth. "No. But you should've. That was the deal, remember?"

Nora shook her head hard enough to send her hair flying and firmly said, "No, Danse. You needed the rest. I… I'm fine."

The slightest twitch of a brow politely announced his disbelief, but he was gentleman enough not to call her out on the blatant lie.

 _Please just drop it, please just drop it…_

She blurted, "What time is it?" That question would serve as a distraction and should also be safe to ask. Anything beyond that, though… Not a good idea.

Turns out it wasn't the most prudent question to ask for reasons that had nothing to do with the position of the sun and everything to do with the position of his body. Danse pushed off the ground with one hand, leaned over her torso, and reached a long arm out over her head to retrieve her Pip-Boy with the other hand.

Of course. Duh. It was the only working wristwatch in the Commonwealth, as far as she knew. And she just stupidly happened to ask him to get it for her, in a roundabout manner.

 _Ahh, hell._

As he hovered over her, she surreptitiously tilted her chin toward the ceiling and inhaled deeply, drawing him in all the way down to her toes. She'd need that strength later. At least she thought she was being sneaky about it but lo and behold, there he was again, looking down at her curiously and searchingly, and oh _lord_ , she could feel his body heat sinking into her. His dark hair fell across his forehead and she wanted nothing more than to smooth it back, then draw him down on top of her into the welcoming cradle of her hips.

 _Stop. It._

"Nora?" He said her name softly but the unvoiced command behind the word was crystal clear: " _Talk to me._ " Instead of completing his intended action, he left the Pip-Boy where it was and braced that hand on the ground next to her shoulder, effectively pinning her in place. There was no way she could avoid answering him now. There was no way she could look away from his penetrating, entirely too-perceptive gaze. There was no way she could move without her body touching his.

 _Well, shit. Again._

"Danse…" she whispered.

Of their own volition, her hands rose and hovered over his chest. By the time her brain caught on, her fingers were already gliding over and greedily learning the texture of the thick, soft hair that tufted over the neckline of his tank top. Her fingertips skimmed up the strong, warm column of his neck, briefly pausing to test the tempo of his pulse point before curving around the back with just a hint of nail. Her fingers splayed and slid into the dense, rough silk of his hair, rubbing in the small circular motions she knew he enjoyed.

The tiny nugget of her brain that was still capable of rational thought was furious with her. _What happened to the big pep talk about not doing ... this?_ _You can't do_ this _!_

Gone. Her willpower was gone. Whatever defensive partitions she had tried to build had disappeared like a sandcastle in the tide.

Danse said her name again, but it sounded different this time. His voice was low and wondering and all the things it shouldn't be, not right now. Not if she wanted to cling to the few shreds of self-control she had left. A warning flare lit deep in the back of her consciousness. She was on very, very thin ice. All it would take was a breath, a word, a touch to drown her.

 _What a way to go, though._

Nora knew she had to stop, and immediately, if she had any hope of recovering her senses. If she closed her eyes tightly - if she blocked out the steady warmth and intelligence of his gaze and all too tempting fullness of his bottom lip - could she then leave? Would she have enough strength and courage to crawl out from under him and climb up into the cold metal sarcophagus of her power armor?

The answer was no. So she opened her eyes back up and submitted to the moment; she'd let the cards in the stacked deck fall as fate pleased. After all, fate had led her to him. The devil on her shoulder guided her hands over the rough stubble on his face and stroked her thumb along the edge of that _damned_ lower lip of his. The angel on the other shoulder was fluttering encouragingly right there next to the devil.

If she had any hope of getting out of there unscathed, he'd have to be the strong one for them both. Nora certainly didn't intend for Lauren Bacall's voice to flow from her lips, but there it was in all its husky, smoky glory. "Tell me to go. Tell me we can't stay here forever, Danse. I'm not strong enough to make myself leave you."


	6. Chapter 6

"I always suspected there was something weird about Paladin Danse. Something, you know… off about him."

This came from the Star Paladin guarding the entrance of the airport compound as he moved aside to allow her to proceed within. His name was Carlson. She'd remember that name.

"I heard you hunted down Paladin Danse. Good… it needed to be done."

That came from one of the scribes busily applying a welding torch and rod to a seam on Liberty Prime's articulated ankle. It was an offhand remark tossed over the woman's shoulder as Nora passed by; she then flicked her welding mask back in place with a sharp jerk of her head and turned back to her task.

 _Nuisance spider in the corner. Had to be squished._

"Death to synth traitors. Job well done, soldier."

A Knight carrying a box of tools nodded and spoke this pleasantry as he passed by. The soldier didn't see Nora whirl and take two paces back in his direction, nor did he see the way her fingers curled into heavy metal fists.

Nora swallowed down the acid bile that threatened to turn into full blown vomit. All of them, every single fucking one of the soldiers and scribes she passed had something to say about Danse. They had respected him, admired him. Held him up as a standard to strive for, just like the great god Maxson.

Now… Now they hated him. Reviled him. They were glad he was supposedly dead. Dead at the hands of the soldier he'd taken under his wing. Maxson hadn't wasted any time in announcing the happy lie, had he? What, had he stood on a table in the mess room and given a fucking speech? Did his soldiers start cheering and carry him out of the room on their shoulders?

Let them just _try_ to celebrate this fictitious death in her presence.

 _Son of a bitch._

Her hands were trembling inside her gauntlets with rage and horror and utter heartbreak. How fast they turned their backs on one of their own. Even now, exiled as he was, Danse would gladly give his life for any one of them, right down to the lowliest aspirant. The scribe with the welding torch - he'd bleed out for her. The Knight with the supplies? He'd take a bullet for him.

And for Maxson? Nora shuddered at the thought of what Danse would allow done to him if it meant Maxson might survive a real - or perceived - threat.

Brotherhood, indeed.

 _Son of a BITCH._

 _Keep it together, Sinclair. Breathe._

Nora inhaled deeply through her nose, drawing the crisp spring air in through the scrubbers of her suit. She could do this. She _would_ do this. The Institute – and Shaun – had to be stopped. The Brotherhood was merely a means to an end, that was all. Liberty Prime was what mattered.

Her way her heart was cracking and flaking into tiny ashy pieces told her she was lying to herself. Danse was what mattered. His _life_ mattered, what he had accomplished mattered, not this false, sensationalized tabloid death.

Only by imagining him in his customary position at her six was Nora able to advance through the airport with her head held high instead of lashing out like a wounded animal at the next person who dared say anything to her, rank be damned. If she concentrated hard enough, she might be able to feel the reassuring presence of his bulk behind her. Her memory had to supply the sorely missed metallic-hydraulic noises of his power armor. She could almost feel him...

Yeah. Right _there_.

He often surged ahead of her on his longer legs; Nora reached out a hand to tap an imaginary arm.

 _"Hold up, big guy. Wait for me, will ya?"_

He would've ducked his head sheepishly and fallen in next to her, consciously shortening his stride to compensate for her much shorter legs. Depending on how tired, hungry, or beat up they both were, they would've either maintained a weary silence or made small talk on the way up the long, wide concourse stairwell that led to the vertibird pad. She might've even braced her shoulders against his armored back and leaned against him for support if the 'bird wasn't available yet. Nora closed her eyes and imagined his voice rumbling in her ear.

 _"It was a stroke of genius to park the Prydwen above the airport. I can't think of a better location."_

 _"We should stock up on supplies before we begin our next mission."_

 _"You lead the way, and I'll always be close behind"_

"How could you have been so close to Paladin Danse and not known he was a synth?" asked a pretty, young scribe holding a clipboard with fueling data on it. The sneer on her face needed removing. Blunt force trauma ought to do the trick.

Nora swiveled her head away and bit the inside of her cheek, reopening the barely healed wound from the day before. The pain would help her focus. The pain would prevent her from uttering any one of the agonized, furious remarks that instantly sprang to the tip of her tongue. The pain would prevent her from turning the scribe's face into bloody pulp.

Danse - _Christ, did that man know her or what?_ \- had urged her to be circumspect, to rein in her temper and keep her cool. He'd known she'd run into this, hadn't he? All of these vultures. No, worse than that - _jackals_. She'd been so wrapped up in trying to contain the tempest inside her at the bunker, she must've overlooked what he was trying to warn her about.

The comforting, calming presence at her side wavered and disappeared. Nora missed him with all her heart.

When transport finally became available, Danse wasn't there to helpfully yank her up into the vertibird, so it took longer than usual for her to clamber aboard in her cumbersome suit. The Lancer on duty craned her neck around to see why the boarding process was taking so long. Nora knew the delay was due to the fact that her legs and feet were as heavy as the leaden weight on her chest. By all rights, she should be sinking into the ground right now, or maybe turning into a diamond from the immense pressure. She certainly felt as hard as one.

The woman shook her head; her voice crackled over the comm in… what, reassurance? It wasn't sympathy or empathy, despite the words used. "I understand how you must be feeling, sister. Danse betrayed us all."

 _Shut the_ fuck _up. You know_ nothing _about him._

Nora thumped her fist on the ceiling of the 'bird in the unmistakable order of _"take us airborne"_ , gaining herself a sour look from the pilot and a neck-snapping takeoff.

If she looked out towards the ocean, she could easily recall the way Danse braced his shoulders against the bulkhead for takeoff. He'd be turning his head to check on her - the single raised brow silently asking " _You ok?_ " as she involuntarily gasped at the powerful thrust the massive rotors provided. She'd learned to brace herself as he did, but he'd have extended his arm to give her something additional to hold onto anyway. Nora groped at the air in front of her, but the arm wasn't there.

Despite being surrounded by dozens, maybe hundreds, of people, Nora felt so alone… Desolate. Half of her - the better half, at that - was missing, and she didn't know what to do about it. She was in a tailspin just as unrecoverable as the vertibird she'd seen knocked out of the sky over Lexington by a behemoth.

 _What was he doing right now? Was he okay? Would he eat and take care of himself without her? Would he go to Greentop if he needed anything, like she'd told him? Would he… do anything foolish?_

As she was suiting up to leave the bunker that morning, she'd softly asked Danse, "How the hell am I supposed to go up there and pretend that none of this happened? How am I supposed to look that son of a bitch in the eye and not rip his heart out like he did to you?"

Danse had circled back around to her front after checking out her suit seals and almost tapped out fusion core. His back had regained its customary straightness with the light of a new day, but the depths of his eyes had still been shadowed with sadness.

"You're a Knight in the Brotherhood of Steel. He's your Elder and your loyalty belongs to him and him alone. My situation changes nothing, soldier," he'd replied quietly.

Danse had to literally pick her up around the waist and stuff her indignant, defiant self back into her suit after that. Well, try to. She'd wound her arms around his neck and clung to him as tightly as she could.

 _"Danse, no. Fuck this, I'm staying with you. Maxson can kiss my shiny metal ass 'cause I'm not going back. I won't abandon you like they did. Please, I need to stay with you. I can't do this -"_

 _"Stop fighting and listen to me. You_ can _do this. You're strong, Nora – stronger than you realize. Elder Maxson – fine, the Commonwealth then, you stubborn woman. They're depending on you. Go, now. Complete your mission. When you need me, I'll be right here. Don't… Nora, don't cry. Come here."_

Forcing herself to walk away from him was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. Harder than leaving Codsworth behind in Sanctuary Hills for her first trip to the ruins of Concord.

God help her, even harder than leaving her husband's frozen corpse behind in the vault.

 _Forgive me, Nate. I still love you, too. Always will. Do you understand? He's been there for me. Just like you were after dad died._

Nora's head fell back against the interior of the vertibird with a heavy thunk so she wouldn't have to look at the empty space to her right, or too deeply into the other holes in her heart. The newest absence already filled her from abdomen to throat with a poisonous ache that ate at her insides. She couldn't prevent herself from probing that hurt, though – much like a tongue continuously prods a canker sore or a broken tooth. Danse wasn't there, and it was wrong on too many levels.

 _Stop. Focus._

Look – they were hovering in place in front of the Prydwen. How many times had she watched the small, proud smile curve the corners of mouth and soften the weather-beaten lines at the corners of his eyes as the silver hulk of the ship came into sight?

 _"I've served on this vessel for years. It's the only home I know."_

Home is where the heart is. The majority of that home was currently located at Listening Post Bravo, but there were other pieces scattered about. One was located in a small grave on the bluff overlooking Sanctuary. Another in Arlington National Cemetery.

She refused to allow herself to think about Shaun again that morning. One mental breakdown per day was all she got.

 _Ration that shit, right?_

Nora waited for the jarring bump that meant the vertibird had hooked onto the frame of the Prydwen, then the nauseating lurch and bob as the rotors cut out, allowing the reinforced superstructure of the ship to assume support of the now-inactive aircraft. Not for the first time, Nora thought it was no wonder Danse had such an affinity for the ship - it was an aircraft carrier of sorts, after all. Just like the beached, rusty hulk in the Capital wasteland he'd told her about.

She had to hop down on legs that still felt as if they were mired in quicksand and salute for the both of them, a formality that Danse had always insisted on observing no matter how rough the ride or how mouthy the pilot. Said pilot frostily turned her head away instead of acknowledging the gesture, something she wouldn't have dared if Danse had been present in his former capacity.

 _Bitch._

Nora flicked the Lancer off with both hands, something she too wouldn't have dared had an ever-watchful Danse been there. A smile briefly tugged the corner of her mouth - he would've been so _pissed_ at her. Few and far between came the opportunities to break his composure and rile him up. She would've enjoyed every second. The box of Fancy Lads she had stashed in her power armor toolbox for just such an occasion would've served as an adequate peace offering afterwards. The man had a sweet tooth that –

 _Concentrate. You've got bigger fish to fry. Maxson, for one. Are you ready? Better be. Can't bribe him with some snack cakes, that's for damn sure._

She strode heavily over the catwalk that stretched between the vertibird docking stations and the entrance to the command deck. The bounce and sway had long ago ceased to bother her, along with the fact that a mere three inches of metal grating was all that kept her from plummeting to the ground far, far below. Idly, Nora wondered if her suit would survive such a drop. She'd heard scuttlebutt of reckless soldiers who held contests on how far they could fall from buildings and bridges. Usually, they ended up polishing the hull of the great airship. From the outside.

Nora climbed the set of stairs that led to the Prydwen proper and automatically paused to salute the Knight on duty outside the command deck. Instantly, she regretted doing so, for here was yet another brother in arms who felt obliged to offer their unwanted opinion. Whatever levity she'd managed to bolster herself with fled as soon as the soldier opened his mouth.

"I still can't believe Danse was a synth. Goddamn traitor!" The Knight hitched his minigun in the air as if mowing down the spirit of the man next to her.

 _Just keep moving. Don't let these assholes get to you._

Just inside the command deck entrance, Nora automatically split right to Danse's imagined left in order to navigate around the stairwells that lead down to the foredeck and beyond that, to the domain of Knight-Captain Kells. She paused for a beat to deferentially allow his ghost - no, ghost was the wrong word. He'd become the angel on her shoulder. Whatever he was, it was proper etiquette to allow her commanding officer to precede her into Maxson's presence.

Before she entered, however, she halted in front of the Knight standing guard in front of Maxson's aerie and tilted her head expectantly.

 _Well? Out with it._

Gravely, the armored soldier said, "Taking down Paladin Danse must have been a tough order to follow. We're in your debt."

Nora snarled, "The fuck you are," to the Knight and stalked past. It was either that or cry. Or start screaming. Raving, howling, weeping, laughing hysterically.

She allowed her armored feet to fall on the decking with deliberate heaviness as she passed through Danse's shadow into the middle of the command deck. Danse wasn't there. He'd never be there again, all because of the man in front of her.

Maxson was standing in his customary position in front of the large plate glass windows overlooking the ruins of the Boston waterfront. He was leaning forward with hands braced on the railing, looking for all the world like a king surveying his domain. As soon as he heard her booming footfalls come to a halt he slowly straightened; his massive shoulders drew back and he shifted on his feet to widen his stance.

Nora belatedly realized she had been holding her breath. She exhaled forcefully; the voice modulator in her suit picked up and amplified the sound, turning it into a sharp mechanical hiss. Not what she had intended, but it certainly fit her mood nicely. The noise caused his spine to become straighter, if that were even possible. It certainly made hers stiffen with anticipation, along with a touch of dread, if she was being honest with herself.

Smaller prey attempted to make themselves larger to scare off a determined predator, only Maxson _was_ the predator. The alpha male. The apex of the food chain. Nora instinctively knew this man did nothing without a driving purpose behind it - no gesture, no word, no expression was permitted without a reason.

Were these movements of his along the lines of an Indian cobra spreading its hood, then? She'd never paid much attention to Maxson before - her entire concentration had always been focused squarely on her Paladin. Perhaps she should've, though. She might have a better grasp of his attitude and mannerisms and how to react to them accordingly, instead of relying on the scant handful of times she'd bothered to pay attention to him.

Was this display meant to be threatening? Was he warning her?

 _Of course he was._

But weren't the copperhead snakes she'd encountered at Fort Benning just as deadly? They had no need of any kind of display other than the coloring used as camouflage, and neither did she. She wouldn't play this particular game with him. She was dull and drab, Maxson was commanding and intense. He would flare his spectacled hood and sway back and forth; she would simply coil in place and wait for him to step on her tail. She was fully capable of injecting deadly venom, just as he was.

 _You're strong, Nora – stronger than you realize._

"Reporting as ordered, Elder." Nora was proud that she was able to keep her voice so even. Calm and composed, even if she felt anything but.

She mentally coiled in on herself and waited until Maxson finally deigned to turn his head sideways and briefly glance over his left shoulder at her. The night vision lights behind them highlighted the slope of his cheekbone with a red glow. In sharp contrast, the matte darkness of his beard absorbed the light, causing Maxson to look like none other than Mephistopheles himself. He was dramatic, she had to give him that. As evidenced by the speech she had heard during her first week aboard the Prydwen, he certainly knew to work a crowd, albeit a current crowd of one.

He did not turn around to acknowledge her further, instead returning his attention to the ruins of the harbor, which caused her to indignantly narrow her eyes behind the tactical HUD of her helmet.

 _Of all the insufferable, egotistical…_ _Did he expect her to kneel and beg forgiveness for her transgressions? Beg for mercy? For her life?_

She could count on one hand the circumstances in which she would beg, and mercy wasn't one of them. Mentally, she clarified - she wouldn't beg for mercy for herself, only loved ones. Danse was at the tippy top of that particular column.

And forgiveness? Fuck that. If anything, Maxson should be begging _her_ forgiveness for the last order he'd given her. What about her life? Didn't really matter all that much as long as she knew Danse was safe.

 _Ahh. Hold on._

This was more crowd control - nothing more, nothing less. He was the king. The big kahuna. She was the supplicant, the subordinate. Dare she even say he likely thought of her as some kind of serf? She was expected to approach him first, perhaps grovel and lick his boot a little. Well, that wasn't gonna fucking happen, not now, not ever.

 _And why, pray tell, is that? Because of sheer pigheadedness? Your inability to back down?_

No. Because of Danse. Because of what this man had done to Danse. Because of what she now felt for Danse.

Nora was on fire. She was burning up like a phoenix. She had been ever since Danse gently bracketed her face in the parentheses of his large hands and and _looked_ at her that morning, just as if he were seeing her for the very first time. Hot flames had been licking at her ever since he'd gently smoothed her hair away from her face with a large, rough palm and fanned it out around her head like a halo. Saint Nora.

 _Ah, but she was no saint. Saints were boring._

The same-but-different feel of his hard body hovering over her, the familiar scent of him filling her nostrils, the puzzled expression on his face – they all made her tremble, tiny little quivers that started in her stomach and spread outwards. Did he realize he was rubbing a thumb back and forth over her temple? There was certainly no doubt he couldn't feel the trembling of the slender fingers that were still cupping the angles and hollows of his cheeks.

No machine had ever been manufactured so beautifully. A machine who believed himself irredeemably flawed due to his very nature, yet was perfection to her eyes, flaws and all.

Nora just knew he had to have heard the galloping of her heart, just as she observed the way he suddenly froze and held his breath as hers quickened in response. His eyes had widened and slowly darkened as this strange, new tension spooled out and wrapped around them.

Three - no four, if she included his name - four little words had readied themselves at the tip of her tongue. All he had to do was say something – anything. Or nothing – she'd go first.

 _Danse, I lo..._

She'd shifted restlessly underneath him, not even brushing against him with the tiny rocking motion of her hips, but it was enough to break the spell. He'd swiftly rolled off of her and sprang to his feet with a muttered apology and reddened face. Before she'd risen on her own watery-kneed, rubbery legs, she could tell he'd dropped the impenetrable shield of the Brotherhood between them by the set of his shoulders and the way he'd avoided meeting her eyes.

At least she hoped it had been the Brotherhood intruding and not something even less palatable.

 _You're like the sister I never had._

Nora had rejected that possibility with a full body shudder. No. Not that. _Please_ not that.

Even so... well, it had been too late. She'd done it to herself, too. All she could blame him for was being so… so _Danse_ it made her ache. It made her want to hum, to sing, to stand on his toes and lose herself in the security of his embrace, the warm depths of his eyes, and hot, slow sweep of his tongue against hers.

Oh _lord_ , she burned for him. She was going up in flames right then and there, in the presence of Arthur Maxson, who had no fucking clue what she was thinking about, did he? He probably assumed she was properly chastened and willing to submit to his next orders, whatever they may be. He was just going to make her sweat it out a little first.

Instead, her heart was molten, pumping lava through arteries and veins and pooling lower, in places she had no business thinking about right now, lest she melt through the metal plating beneath her feet. Was there a deck below to catch her? If she shook her fingers, would globules of white hot titanium fly from them? She tested her theory by surreptitiously flicking her forefinger at the massive leather-covered back in front of her, but disappointingly enough nothing happened.

Still, Maxson had best tread very, very carefully or he was liable to get incinerated.

Nora took a deep breath and held it until stars appeared in her vision. She knew she couldn't allow herself to burn out of control like a wildfire. All she needed to do was get her next set of orders so she could get back to the listening post. Getting back to Danse was all that mattered, not whatever seek-and-destroy or find-and-retrieve mission she was about to be handed.

 _You can do this. You_ are _strong._

Nora stood at attention with a military precision learned not from her Paladin, but from her father two centuries earlier as she grew up in the installations of first Belvoir, then Carson, Riley, Benning, and Hood. None of these schmucks here could pull it off quite as well, she'd guaran-damn-tee it. General William Kennedy Donovan, Jr. had seen to that. Even though she'd refused to enlist in his beloved Army, he'd still trained her up right, and from an early age at that.

 _Chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. Eyes front. You got this, baby._

"Remove your helmet." Maxson's tone was cool and controlled; it was an effective retardant against the flames that licked her insides.

Nora jerked with surprise. _Beg your fucking pardon?_

She certainly hadn't been expecting an order like _that_. It seemed this man was just full of unwelcome surprises. She'd been anticipating fury and rage and the slashing gestures he'd made in front of the old listening post. She'd been waiting for another demonstration of the barely leashed, explosive momentum he'd previously exhibited as he prowled back and forth across the deck.

Despite what Danse had said, she'd been fully expecting instantaneous punishment of some degree or another. Not whatever the fuck _this_ was.

"Sir?" She _hated_ the vibration of uncertainty that shaded her voice.

 _Damn. Oh, well. Too late to recall it now. Brazen through it, if you can..._

"Sir, this soldier does not understand the instruction she has just been given."

 _Thank you, daddy._

The powerful shoulders in front of her flexed as he clasped his hands at the small of his back. She couldn't help but think that dad would've wholeheartedly approved. Of Arthur Maxson, she added mentally. Not of the disobedience and insubordination his daughter had thus far shown. Dad would've nailed her ass to the wall. Then again, he would've taken an instant liking to Danse, and hadn't he often told her to stick to her guns?

"Carry out the order you were just given, Knight. Think of it as a simple test. A test to see if you are, in fact, capable of following orders. Your actions from the previous day leave me with serious doubts regarding said capability."

 _Ouch. OUCH._

She pulled a face behind the titanium mask she wore. No fury, then. Just cold commands and the wide, implacable expanse of his back. Nora eyed him cautiously - _why on earth…?_ \- but shrugged and carried out the order. It seemed an easy enough request, if a bit odd. Maybe she was naturally inclined towards disobedience to any of his orders now, especially after the bullshit that went down yesterday.

Nora twisted and unlocked the helmet, tucking it under her arm. Instantly, she regretted her action. Maxson pivoted on one heel - an about-face as meticulously executed as any she'd ever seen. His façade had slipped slightly yesterday, allowing her a glimpse of the man underneath the Elder. She knew for damn sure that he wasn't gonna allow that to happen again. Not unless he chose to, and he was true to form. His face could've just as well been one of the bronze Art Deco sculptures from a downtown office building, for all she was able to glean from it. Everything from dark, slanted brows to the severe set of heavily bearded mouth and jaw gave nothing away. Absolutely nothing.

Yes, his face was expressionless and posture perfect, with the exception of those damned eyes of his; they glowed like ionized gas. Like the St. Elmo's fire she'd seen once on the spire of Trinity Church during a wicked, tropical storm spawned thunderstorm. The intensity and heat they emitted threatened to slag the rest of her armor into pieces with the pinpoint blue flame of an acetylene torch. The helmet would've served her well as a buffer against them.

 _Her eyes. He wanted to see_ her _eyes. Crap, crap, crap._

Her eyes and the various expressions they held had gotten her into deep kimchi more than once. She felt her palms slick with sudden cold sweat and a tendril of uneasiness slid down her spine, making her shudder convulsively. _Shit_. Had she managed to mask her reaction quickly enough? She'd never faced a judge like this, one who was also jury and executioner all in one gigantic, battle-honed body.

She suppressed a sudden, nervous giggle. The image of the gaunt, perpetually peevish Judge Aaron Robinson superimposed itself over the man standing squarely in front of her. Robinson had hated her, and she had once thought him intimidating, but he had nothing on Arthur Maxson.

No, he hadn't missed the ill-timed shiver. _He_ wouldn't. His eyes flicked downwards quickly over her armor, then back up, pinning her in place once again. She wanted to glance down to see if his laser-sharp focus had scored her armor – and if it did, she'd be _pissed_ \- but she couldn't break eye contact. He was a damned basilisk, not a cobra. King Arthur. King of serpents.

 _Get a fucking grip, would you? He's not a monster. Right? He'd backed down, allowed Danse to…_

King Arthur spoke: "Before we continue, I want to make one thing clear. This conversation will be the last time we speak about Danse. As far as the Brotherhood is concerned, he's dead. Do you understand?"

 _…_ _he's dead..._

 _Danse_ …

He'd sent her off with one final warning: _"Just be careful out there. If anything happened to you... I honestly don't know what I'd do."_ Solemnly, he'd reached a hand out and skimmed his knuckles across her cheek so lightly she could barely feel the touch before handing her the helmet, stepping back a pace, and saluting proudly.

She'd returned the salute, holding it for far longer than necessary. Then, unlike now, the helmet had masked her response. Those tears had still been standing in her eyes miles down the road.

 _Danse_.

Something cracked open in her chest, allowing the blazing heat to flare high. It burned away the fog of fear. The anger remained, banked for now, but the trepidation was gone. After all, what did she stand to lose?

Whatever Danse thought should be the case, her loyalty was still firmly with him. Not Maxson. Not the Brotherhood. Danse.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Maxson pinned her with a fierce, hawkish look, but nodded. "Granted."

Her voice cracked as she spoke, but hell, what did it matter? "I'll never understand. He's not dead to me, or to you, despite what you say. I can't- I won't believe that. You know _who_ he is, even if you can't allow yourself to look past the what. He's a good man and you _know_ it," she said slowly, uncharacteristically stumbling over her words.

 _If she could only make him understand… Just him. None of the opinions of the other soldiers mattered, only Maxson._

"I love him," she blurted. "Do you hear me? I love him."

 _But he did know that, didn't he? He'd seen it in her. And… she'd seen the same in him? Was that right? Had that been the unidentifiable emotion she'd seen on his face as he turned his back on them?_

His eyes were bright and intense, but the rest of his face… wasn't. He looked tired. Defeated? Was that even possible? No, it wasn't defeat. It was _grief_. She'd seen the same look in her own eyes and face over and over and over again. He'd allowed his façade to slip once again. Perhaps he knew he didn't need to dissemble with her.

Nora took a step forward, leaned forward, and whispered, "You do know. And for what it's worth… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for _your_ loss."

She was able to return to Danse's side. Maxson wasn't.

Maxson looked at her quietly for a long minute. The fire in his face faded, leaving behind the mask of a man far older than his actual twenty years. Then… he inclined his head. Once.

"Acknowledged," he said gruffly.

 _Acknowledged. Which part?_

Honestly, she wasn't sure which one held more importance in that moment – her love, or his absolution.

She knew she was tickling the serpent's tail, but for her own peace of mind, she had to press the issue. Cautiously, she asked, "You're not going to change your mind, are you? You're not going to try to have him killed behind my back? I say 'try' because I'll be in the way again. You know that."

Maxson's voice became as hard and uncompromising as his flinty eyes, and understandably so. She was questioning his integrity - and understandably so.

"I'm a man of my word, Knight. If he remains invisible to the Brotherhood of Steel, he has nothing to fear."

Nora's eyes slid closed with relief. "Thank you."

She wasn't quite sure if she was thanking him or some higher entity.

He hitched one broad shoulder in a not-so nonchalant shrug. "Of course, Danse's execution creates a missing link in our chain of command. That traitor held quite an important position with us."

Maxson paused for effect and flicked his cobra hood back out. "I'm certain that you'll make a fine replacement. His quarters and all his possessions are now yours, including his personal suit of power armor. Congratulations, Paladin."

He was too honorable to lie, but he wasn't above striking out unexpectedly and viciously. This hit rocked her back on her heels. It was worse, much worse than she had anticipated.

Danse was wrong. Maxson _had_ decided to punish her.

Maxson was replacing Danse with _her_.

The anger flared high. Nora spat, "Body's not even cold, and you're already dividing the loot."

Maxson's face settled back into cold impassivity. "To the victor go the spoils. Being a part of the Brotherhood, you should learn to appreciate that sentiment."

Damn if he didn't just step on her tail after all. Nora coiled and struck.

"To the victor go the spoils? A man's life isn't a prize to be won, you fucking bigoted asshole. But rest assured, I'll take better care of Danse than you and this fucking organization _ever_ did," she hissed.

She was once again speaking to his back by then, though. If the taunt struck home, she didn't see any kind of reaction. No, Elder Arthur Maxson leaned forward on the heavy railing and returned to his self-imposed vigil.

 _Well, fuck you and the Trojan horse you flew in on._

Finally, _finally_ , she received her next marching orders. Too bad he hadn't just cut to the chase. She wouldn't have felt the acid bile rising in her throat again, burning away the sympathy she'd foolishly felt for him.

"In any event, we still have the Institute to contend with and a lot of work to do before we can begin our final assault. While the finishing touches are being put onto Liberty Prime, Captain Kells has identified a potential threat to our operations. Report to him immediately for your next assignment."

Nora was outside the door by the time the last syllable fell silent.


	7. Chapter 7

Nora had deliberately defied Maxson's command to report immediately to Kells. Instead of descending down the two flights of stairs immediately in front of Maxson's observation deck per his orders, she'd heaved her bitchy armored ass up the odd fusion of ladder and steps that led to the main deck of the Prydwen with indecorous speed.

 _Tell the truth, dear._

Ok, fine. She ran the fuck away. She knew without a doubt her head was far too warped out of shape to even consider having a quote-unquote friendly little chat with the Lancer Captain, not after the enormous shock of her promotion. She also knew just one more comment pertaining to the worth of a certain ex-Paladin's life would be all it took to reduce her into a snarling, snapping beast, and _man_ , was she itching for that fight. The target didn't matter, only the scent of blood did. She'd gotten a taste from Maxson and it made her want more, more, _more_. Matter of fact, there was a very good chance the next person who dared utter Danse's name would be taking a long drop off of the flight deck, even if she had to personally accompany them down and pray her power armor survived the meteoric plummet.

 _Just relax already, will you?_

Nora snorted to herself. _Fat chance of that._

Objectively speaking, she knew she was a fucking mess. When she pulled her mental focus back to an over the shoulder point of view and took a good look at herself, she saw that she was jittery, on the verge of panic, decidedly wrathful, and utterly heartbroken. All of the above wreckage was fueled by a meager few hours of sleep, no appreciable caloric intake, and an intense, newly awakened frustration that positively clawed at her innards. Her emotional fuselage felt identical to the carcasses of the jetliners that lay rotting and rusting in the sun and rain on the ground far beneath her feet.

And now she had become a little tipsy on top of it all, because why the hell not? Why. The hell. Not.

Instead of pointing herself towards the engineering section amidships to turn in her T-60, she'd sloppily parked the suit in front of the entrance to Danse's quarters – _former quarters._ She'd taken a deep, steadying breath and slipped inside. And thaaaat's where the alcohol came in to play.

 _Oops._

Her eyes had instantaneously fallen upon the most beauteous sight: a bottle of vodka. It was if the heavens themselves gilded the bottle with the glow of a weak, yellow electric bulb. It was meant to be.

 _How poetic, Nora. Stick to lawyering, maybe._

Right. Well, lawyers, attorneys, barristers, counselors – they all got plastered too. Went with the territory. Back in the day, she preferred her vodka with a twist of lemon in a cut crystal Waterford glass. Now? Beggars simply couldn't be choosers.

Surkov wasn't known as an especially _good_ brand of vodka. The last two centuries certainly hadn't improved the situation, either. There was no comparison to top shelf or even mid shelf. It was cheap, it tasted awful, and packed a hell of a punch the next day in the form of a blinding headache. Nora shrugged. Didn't matter. When in Rome and all that.

Danse had never approved of how much she drank, but the sight of the bottle meant comfort of a different kind. The tall, cool, and welcoming type – hopefully enough to quench the deep thirst that matched and threatened to outpace her various hungers. She lunged towards that gorgeous, beautiful, sexy bottle, nearly knocking it off the desk in her haste, fumbling with the cap and tilting the thick glass bottom towards the ceiling. The sharpness of the liquor bit deeply into lips, tongue, and throat, a scorching fire that flowed down her esophagus and into her stomach. It burned there, too, but it was a welcome sensation. It told her if she just kept swallowing, swallowing, swallowing, all of _this_ would disappear for a while.

Maxson, the Prydwen, her new title, whatever fucking orders Kells had for her. Rebuilding settlements and resupplying the Minutemen, the failing crops at Oberland Station. The gaping holes in the Sanctuary bridge that had yet to be repaired. Nate's grave. Shaun's crib with the rusted mobile…

 _Stop. Don't go there._

Fine. There were other problems she could worry over and losses she could continue to mourn, fittingly enough, right there in _his_ quarters, with _his_ bottle of vodka.

 _Nope. They're yours now, baby girl. Maxson said so._

Nora sank down on the edge of the bed, unconsciously rubbing the backs of her fingers back and forth over the scratchy wool blanket. How many times had she sat in this exact spot, watching her Paladin write reports or break down his laser rifle? She no longer had that handsome, honest, heroic champion in her corner. Out of woefully misplaced loyalty, Danse would staunchly insist Arthur Maxson was better, braver, and bolder than he. Far worthier of her esteem and yes, decidedly in her corner.

It was well within her rights to reject that imagined argument out of just as stubborn a loyalty. Even if he was technically her Elder and, as Danse pointedly pointed out before she left him behind at the bunker, her commanding officer, she knew Maxson hardly counted as _her_ champion. That position was already well and truly filled.

Just for shits and giggles though, she cocked her head to one side and considered Maxson's reaction if she casually took hold of his large hand and laced her fingers between his, or just as nonchalantly started kneading his neck like an overgrown kitten. What might happen if she strolled up to him, slipped her arms underneath his battlecoat, and snuggled against his barrel chest?

Worst case scenario, her arms would be torn from their sockets. Best case, she'd be tossed in the brig.

Her body shuddered in immediate dismissal of the mere notion. No. Absolutely not. She couldn't turn to the Elder for comfort in any sense of the word.

 _Let's not go_ there _either, darling. Some thoughts are better left unthunk, wouldn't you agree?_

Nora tipped backwards onto the thin, lumpy mattress of Danse's bunk – _former bunk, remember?_ – carefully keeping the neck of the bottle upright, only pushing herself up on one elbow far enough to take occasional sips. Once the burn had spread from throat and stomach to bone and blood, she knew she was ready to… do something. Whatever. Comfortably numb was the name of the game and she had just won the first round. The demons were temporarily held at bay.

And so she found herself wandering aimlessly around the small confines of the room, bottle in hand. Curiosity led her to open the locker next to the entrance, revealing a brown leather bomber jacket. Nora set the bottle down carefully between her booted feet and slid first one arm, then the other, into warm but ludicrously oversized folds that smelled deliciously like Danse when she nuzzled her nose into the sheepskin collar.

Only his furnace-like heat was ever enough to offset the cryogenic deep freeze that still lingered deep in the marrow of her bones – not even booze thawed that permafrost. Part of the reason why she'd pulled his jacket around her shoulders. That and the fact that his arms, if she looked down at herself through the bottom of the bottle and squinted, were now wrapped around her once again. The logical, not-yet-drunk part of her brain realized the substitution was makeshift at best, but it would have to do for now until she could get back to the listening post and the comforting, radiating heat of the real thing.

 _There, there. Another bump from the bottle. Better now?_

 _Mmm hmm. Let's keep going._

A rather playful inquisitiveness fortified by the vodka prompted her to close her eyes and spin around on tiptoe with finger extended out. She came to a halt with alarming wobble – _look ma, still standing!_ – to find it aimed at the trunk at the end of the bed. The top opened, revealing underthings that would cause Danse to blush twenty shades of red if he knew she had swallowed down a giggle and poked the offending articles with a finger. For a soldier, he could be such a prude at times, even though she averted her eyes whenever she found him in a less than ah, fully dressed situation.

Usually. Eye candy was eye candy, and he was a whole damn store full of the stuff.

Speaking of stores… Thoughtfully, she tilted her head and picked up a pair of briefs. They were Brotherhood issue and of far better quality than one could find in the wasteland. Even more thoughtfully, Nora looked around for some kind of bag to place them in.

Purpose drove her to – shockingly enough – set the bottle down and start filling the olive drab duffel bag she'd found in another locker with whatever else she could find in her random perambulations around the room. The silver hairbrush from the desk. The gray PT sweats she'd found in a drawer. Not the standard orange uniforms from the cabinet, as the unmistakable color and design would draw unwanted attention, but certainly these plain khaki fatigue pants, and that dark navy knitted cap. Those tactical black leather gloves and this matching pair of durable, calf-high, lace up boots.

By the time she was done searching through the various lockers, trunks, and cabinets, Nora had amassed a decent pile of useful, nondescript clothing and other assorted items at the end of the bunk, perfect for the man about the post-apocalyptic town. She knew from experience that finding something at any given vendor that fit one's body was hit and miss. In her case, due to her small stature. In Danse's case, quite the opposite.

Decisively, Nora nodded her head with a sharp jerk. Yes, this would be enough for the present. She could supplement his other needs from the storerooms of Sanctuary and the Castle, namely weapons, armor, and ammo. It was time to start packing now. She hummed tunelessly as she placed heavy items on the bottom, then smaller, lighter things on top. The vodka she'd consumed didn't necessarily help with the process, but whatever. Wasn't like anything was breakable, right?

When that task was complete, she scanned the room, seeking overlooked boxes and bins. Had she missed anything? Didn't look like it. The only container in the room she hadn't searched yet was the small floor safe in the corner, to the immediate right of the bed. Her gut told her that it was the most likely spot for any personal mementoes Danse might have accumulated.

 _Save the best for last?_

More like save the stuff that could possibly set her off on a crying jag for last.

As soon as she awkwardly crouched between bunk and safe, jiggled the handle – it was unlocked, of course – and pulled the lead-lined door open, she did indeed see a small heap of objects within. Right at the front left were a few weapon mods; she recognized them from the rare moments of downtime he'd found to fiddle and tinker with them. Improvements for his laser rifle, and hers, he'd said once with a nod and a small, warm smile. He'd taken over weapon maintenance and upgrades for her pretty much right away once they'd partnered up for good; she'd been overloaded with learning other, more important, survival skills. Like how to keep her shit together.

Nora smiled in response at the memory of that distant moment and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Carefully, she swiveled her torso to set the pieces next to the duffel bag, turned back to the safe, and repeated the same action for the small, full sack of caps she found next. In the back was a cigar case; carefully she drew it out, rose from her crouch, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

She'd seen plenty of these boxes throughout the Commonwealth, but she hadn't known Danse had collected one. Must've done so before she came along. The words burnt into the top of the fine-grained wood of the cigar box read "Hoja Dulce". _Hoja Dulce…_ Nora knew dulce meant sweet, or something along those lines. Five leaves were carved into the wood below the phrase. Could hoja mean tobacco? Or leaf, maybe? A finger stroked over the ridges and indentations of those carved leaves.

She'd never seen Danse smoke, not once, therefore she knew the box she'd found was unlikely to hold a private stash of cigars. Nora held the box up to her ear and gently shook it, hearing a slight rattling inside, before returning it to her lap. The weight of whatever contents it held was negligible. Not ammo, then – besides, she'd found enough of that in the various trunks and lockers in the room. She'd left it in a small heap on the low cabinet he'd used to clean and reassemble their weapons on; it would be too heavy added to the decent heft of the already full duffel, and none of it was of a sufficiently rare caliber to break her back over anyway.

Nora shook her head sharply; she was getting distracted again. Her attention was completely fragmented and it was affecting her thought processes. The largest portion remained with Danse at the listening post, still fretting about him. Another chunk was chewing the problem Arthur Maxson posed around. A tiny slice occupied itself with the power armor that was rather irresponsibly abandoned outside the door – no doubt it was thoroughly irradiated from her latest sojourn in the Glowing Sea and would need decontamination. The remaining piece of the pie chart that made up her brain belonged to Kells and whatever new mission he had waiting for her, whenever the hell she decided to comply.

Again, she rubbed a finger over the top of the box; the wood held the beautiful, glowing patina of age. Well, they could wait. All of them, except for Danse, she amended. She had other things to tend to at the moment, none of which involved Maxson, or Kells, or her stupid power armor.

Nora cuddled a little deeper into Danse's jacket and hesitated for a moment before thumbing the latch of the small cigar box and flipping the lid open, uncomfortably aware she was sticking her nose where it didn't necessarily belong. Curiosity always did kill that damn cat, didn't it? A waft of cedar mixed with old tobacco leaves filled her nostrils before rapidly dissipating into the heavier metallic background scents of the Prydwen. For a brief moment, she was filled with amazement that after all these years – no, centuries – the wood had held onto the rich scents.

The box wasn't nearly as full as she had been expecting, but there were a few items inside, namely two sets of holotags on top of a paper object of some kind. The neon blue glow was noticeably faded on both sets; the designation Nora saw when she curiously turned over one of the paired metal tabs read CT-406K.

 _CT-406K?_

A dark smear on the ball chain could be only one thing.

 _Oh, Danse. Honey..._

These were – had been – Cutler's holotags. Wearily, she rubbed the bony heel of her hand against her forehead; the poignantly piercing image of a younger Danse kneeling beside the corpse of a Super Mutant vividly, and painfully, bloomed in the forefront of her mind. His face would've been etched with grief, but his hands would've been steady as he recovered the holotags from the grotesquely mutated neck of his fallen friend.

If nothing else, she owed it to Danse to reunite him with Cutler's tags. It was very likely they were the most precious possession he owned. Reverently, Nora lifted the ball chain free of the other contents and lowered it back down in the corner of the box with shaky fingers. The chain coiled around itself, making a neat nest for the tags themselves.

When she examined the other pair of holotags, she saw they had the designation DN-407K etched into them. K for Knight – these were Danse's Knight tags. She swiftly brought them to her lips, and then placed them just as carefully next to the other pair. His P for Paladin tags still hung underneath her uniform between her breasts, right next to her skin and as close to her heart as they could possibly get.

The holotag arithmetic just didn't match up when she tried to calculate the equation. Three sets of tags representing two lives, one of which had been cut short too soon. Add in herself – was she a plus or a negative? A constant or a variable? The math caused Nora's heart to ache fiercely for Danse. The fact that he'd never even cleaned the blood off of Cutler's tags… _God_.

Quickly, she knuckled the moisture from her eyes. The vodka was making her sappy.

 _Sweetheart. It's not just the vodka, and you know it._

Nora sniffled in agreement with her conscience. _Fucking feelings._

Now that the tags were pushed towards the back of the box, she could see that the paper underneath was actually thick, glossy photo stock. She grabbed hold of the corner, turned the photo over, and gasped with amazed delight. The picture was of a much younger Danse – and oh, how her heart leapt! – standing next to another man; Nora absolutely drank the sight of him in, completely ignoring the other for the moment.

Her eye was drawn immediately to the younger Danse's smile. It was a wide, happy grin that caused all of her internal organs to flip over, never mind her heart. She'd give anything to have him smile at her like that, just once - or just in general. At Dogmeat. At a rock. Didn't have to be aimed at her. It was _beautiful_. Jesus, was it beautiful.

 _He_ was beautiful, in a way she'd never seen him before. The Danse in the photo was charming, confident, relaxed, sure of himself and his place in that distant past. She was suddenly quite certain, unshakably so, that _this_ Danse with _that_ smile had torn a wide swath through the Brotherhood ranks. The mere whisper of that thought caused her to press her thighs together tightly, chasing the sensation that pulsed there.

 _Down, girl._

The Danse in the picture was so much younger than she could've ever imagined him being. He couldn't be more than eighteen there? His body was lanky, scrawny even, with none of the heavy, well-defined bands and planes of muscle that he had now. His hair was shaved close at the sides and left longer on top, very similar to Maxson's current undercut. The picture didn't have enough detail to determine if his face held the same scars as the older version, although it looked like his right brow had already been marked by the nearly horizontal slice she'd become so familiar with. The face itself was leaner, chin and cheeks only barely shadowed with dark stubble. The absence of beard made his lower lip look even fuller, if that were even possible.

Nora licked her lips and swallowed.

 _Down, girl._

Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from his face to finally examine the other person in the picture. The figure could be only one person - the owner of the other set of holotags. The blood-smeared ones. Sometime after Danse had opened up and told her about him, she'd developed a vague, amorphous idea of what Cutler might have looked like. Dark haired, like Danse, but not as tall and certainly not as well built. Nowhere near as handsome, either – but this picture quashed all of that.

The Cutler in the picture was just as tall as Danse, and might have even been an inch or two taller, as he was standing hip-shot in the picture and it was hard to tell. The young man was blond haired, blue eyed, and devastatingly attractive, not unlike Nate had been, actually. Yes, the shape of the face was the same, as was the cocky grin. The proud jut of the nose and the way the hair swept back from the temples also resembled her late husband.

 _Let's not go there either, honey. Ok? It's just a passing resemblance, that's all. That's all._

Nora exhaled slowly and regrouped her thoughts. _Right_. She'd hazard a guess that the picture had been taken soon after Danse and Cutler had both joined the Brotherhood. When had that been? She was still pretty shaky on her history in the years following 2077. Some kind of recruitment drive in the Capital wasteland, he'd said. In the ruins of Washington D.C. Abruptly, Nora shook her head. She'd been staring with absorbed fascination at Danse's smile again. Her eyes combed over other areas of the photo, seeking more insight into her ex-Paladin. Her Danse.

 _Ahh, yes. There. That was something._

Interestingly enough, the two men were standing quite close together. Not unremarkable on its own – after all, they'd been the closest of friends. But the way Cutler's arm was slung around Danse's lean waist, and the way that Danse's head was tilted towards the other man, temples almost touching…

Nora smiled and brushed a gentle fingertip across the picture Danse's cheek. She liked to think that maybe, just maybe, Danse had allowed his younger self to love and be loved in return at some point before duty and responsibility had overtaken the desire for affection and closeness. It was almost difficult for her to reconcile this happy, smiling man with the quiet, stern Paladin she'd met decades after this had been taken. His self-confidence was so depleted now. Too depleted, and she'd give anything to build him back up again. Whatever he'd allow her to do for him, he need only ask.

Nora sighed, slid the photo back into the box, and nudged the holotags back in place on top. She wasn't entirely sorry she had pried into his personal items, now that she'd seen the photo. Nora hoped she'd gazed at it long enough to commit it to memory, much as she had done that morning to the older Danse, her Danse. Young Danse was gorgeous and full of energy and life, but current Danse was the version that was hers. A man who was loyal and brave. Solid. Dependable. Confident and strong when it counted, and vulnerable and uncertain in those rare, intimate moments when it counted even more. Honest to a fault. Broken, just like her.

Gently, she closed the lid, frowning when the latch refused to catch. There hadn't been anything else in the box, so what was preventing it from closing? Nora reopened the lid, only to find that something wedged under the liner of the cigar box was blocking the hook closure. She saw a corner of something white sticking out. Another photo?

Her fingernails were pared down, but she was able to pinch the edge between thumb and forefinger and ease it out from under the liner, revealing the back of yes, another photo. The name of the studio was stamped on a diagonal slant, although she couldn't make out the words underneath the layers of dirt and ash. It must've somehow slid underneath the paper liner, perhaps when the box had been jumbled around. Or maybe he hid it there on purpose?

Nora flipped the picture over, and gasped once more at the laughing face she saw looking up at her. It too, was familiar. After all, she'd seen it looking back at her in the mirror every day of her life until the bombs fell. Danse had a picture of _her_. In his box. Her picture. That was her face. Her pre-war face.

She was stunned. _How… where did he even get it?_

Gently, she fingered the edges – charred and blistered by nuclear fire – and examined the picture itself. He had to have gotten it in Sanctuary. There was no other possibility. Water had stained and blurred the image, but the memory was still as vivid as the day it had been taken.

The picture had been taken during an unseasonably hot snap that had lasted two and a half weeks. Their air conditioning unit had predictably broken down on day four of the heat wave. She'd been so crabby and miserable that Nate had told her to grab a swimsuit and towel and hold on to her hat, because he was bringing her to the beach. He'd scooped her up in his arms, overstuffed beach bag and all, deposited her in their new, turquoise Corvega, and sped off.

For a second, Nora swore she could feel his hard arms behind her back and under her knees as he carried her to the convertible…

 _Oh, Nate. I miss you, baby._

The beach in the picture – Pleasure Bay – was the finest in Boston. The cleanest sand, the tastiest lobster rolls, the coldest lemonade and beer. Look how bright her yellow and white striped towel looked against the pristine sand. Now the sand was filthy and oil-stained and the diner that served the lobster rolls had most recently served as target practice for the artillery pieces located on the ramparts of the Castle. Pleasure Bay beach was, heartbreakingly enough, located on the opposite side of the small lagoon adjacent to the Castle. The small, sheltered body of water was circled by a narrow causeway that once upon a time, had served as a lovely path for walking and biking. It was now littered with the carcasses of large trucks, raiders, and mutated fish heaved up from the depths of the ocean during the storm two weeks ago.

But if she closed her eyes – Nora squeezed them so tightly it blocked out all of the light in the room – if she concentrated hard enough, she could hear the seagulls. Normal ones, not the horribly mutated variety. She could smell the buttery, fresh bread and the sharp tang of ice-cold lemonade. Not Deezer's knockoff – the real stuff, with tart fresh lemons and pure cane sugar. Her toes dug into the hot, fine sand as a deep, affectionate voice laughingly told her to tilt her head back and smile for the camera, wouldn't she? There, wasn't she much happier now that she could have a swim and cool off?

Nora nodded her head dreamily. _Yes, she_ was _happier, and didn't she owe him a favor for that? Coquettishly, she patted the towel beside her and not-so-innocently tugged her bikini top down slightly, thrilling in the surge of heat that glowed in those gorgeous blue eyes of his. The newlywed phase never had faded between them, not when he could make her_ need _him so much with one look._

 _Nate's muscles bunched and shifted as he slowly lowered himself onto the sand. A large, loving palm slid slowly up the indentation of her waist, feathered up her spine, and worked its way under the tight band of her top. Nora held her breath as he briefly toyed with the hook; all it would take was a flick of his long fingers and she'd be exposed to all of the other beachgoers. A tiny electrifying shock crackled through her veins at the thought; she arched against him subtly when a different kind of heat, not weather related in the least, pooled elsewhere. Nate smiled at her wickedly – he knew exactly what she was thinking, didn't he? Her fingernails dug teasingly into his shoulders as he lowered his head to place a kiss that held more than a hint of tongue in the valley of her breasts._

 _Nora tilted her head back, resting it on the towel, as he continued to explore her neck and collarbone with sharp teeth, hot breath, and a clever tongue. She murmured a half-hearted demurral when his lips arrived at the hollow behind her ear. "Lover boy, remember what happened last time you started kissing me like this in public?"_

 _Unrepentantly, Nate grinned down at her, quirking an eyebrow. "Sure do. I'll never look at the monkey bars the same way. We should revisit that park again soon. You still have those stockings or did we ruin them?"_

Reality crashed abruptly down around her head as she opened her eyes once again. Nora clasped the picture to her chest protectively. Danse had to have found it in her house – the house she had shared with Nate. A tiny flicker of anger rose in her chest. Why hadn't he returned it to her? He knew how valuable memories like this were when all she had left of her old life were scraps. Nate's flag, Shaun's SPECIAL board book and rattle. She hadn't even thought about the possibility that pictures could've survived the last two centuries. Surely Codsworth would've mentioned if they had?

Nora's hand hovered above the open cigar box, but instead of dropping the photo on top, she unzipped the pocket on her sleeve and tenderly tucked the fragile photo inside. This was hers. Her moment in time. Her memory. Danse would surely understand.

The thought that came to mind was unbidden and unwanted, as the worst thoughts usually were: _How could you let yourself fall in love with another man?_

Jerkily, Nora latched the lid and stuffed it heedlessly in the duffel bag. She sprang to her feet unsteadily, scrubbing her palms on her thighs. Opening that box had been a mistake after all.


	8. Chapter 8

Lancer Captain Kells escorted Nora to the observation deck – "escorted" being the polite term for the way she was being manhandled. It wasn't a hand on the elbow, would-you-please-come-with-me type maneuver. It wasn't even a firm, stern palm between the shoulder blades kind of thing. Nope. It was a frog march. Definitely a frog march, complete with arm bent behind the back.

To give Kells credit, he didn't otherwise treat her rudely or poorly, with the exception of the drill sergeant-style ass chewing he'd given her prior to "escorting" her to Maxson. That would've been considered conduct unbecoming an officer, and Kells truly was a professional officer. No, he merely deposited her in the middle of the room and swiftly approached Maxson.

The LC spoke quietly and briefly in the Elder's ear, his tall, lean frame all but vibrating with not-so-repressed anger. Immediately, Maxson's eyes widened incredulously then narrowed dangerously. She couldn't blame the guy, honestly. Refusing to carry out two orders in as many days? Grounds for a court martial - or the Brotherhood equivalent, anyway. Nora suppressed an uneasy squirm.

 _If they had an equivalent. If Maxson didn't summarily decide to throw her off the flight deck._

Kells began talking again, too low and fast for her to make any sense of the words no matter how she cocked her head. Nora watched with guarded attention as Maxson's face suffused with an ominous deep red that quickly subsided. As Kells spoke, the Elder's eyes pinned her in place, drilling deeply enough that she was pretty sure he could see every thought running through her brain.

A pulse of anger warmed her chest, lifting her chin and bolstering her spirits. What did she care? After the absolute shitstorm she'd gone through with Danse yesterday and the morally reprehensible order she'd just been given to infiltrate the Old North Church and take out the Railroad, she had zero fucks left to give.

Just as quickly as it had flared, the anger cooled. Not altogether gone, but layered with logic and a healthy dose of caution. Nora knew she needed to keep a level head - she wasn't out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.

The LC's rapid fire commentary wound to a sudden halt. Maxson clasped his hands behind his back and simply said, "Thank you, Captain. That will be all. Close the door behind you as you leave."

Nora fancied that the resounding bell-like clang of the door sounded like a death knell.

 _Buckle up. Here we go. Again._

Her inner thoughts were wry, but no amount of preparation or sarcasm could offset the chill that crawled up her spine as Maxson advanced on her with unmistakable intent. He was _pissed_. Nora carefully blanked her face, straightened her spine, and sucked in her stomach.

Surprisingly enough, instead of coming to a halt directly in front of her as she expected - and braced herself for - he smoothly downshifted and stalked around her left side. He was so light on his feet she could neither hear his footsteps nor feel their vibration on the deck. The hair on the back of her neck rose when he disappeared out of her peripheral vision. If Maxson intended on unsettling her, he'd succeeded, and all without saying a single word. She'd often heard her father speak of command presence. This man had it in spades.

When he emerged back around her other side, he came to a halt directly in front of her and bit off a terse, "Explain yourself."

Nora gauged the expression on his face - _lethal_ \- and tempered her response. "I think Captain Kells just advised you of the circumstances. Sir."

His eyes continued to bore into her. "I'd like to hear it from you, Paladin."

This was where it would start to get... sticky. "With all due respect, I was given another order that I cannot and will not execute. My conscience won't allow it."

"I was not aware you were given a decision in the matter. You were ordered to eliminate an enemy faction in a preemptive strike and that order still stands. Your conscience has no bearing on the matter, _Paladin_ Sinclair." Heavy, stinging emphasis was placed on the title.

 _Paladin_. Perhaps Maxson thought the use of her new title would bring her to heel, but he'd chosen to emphasize the wrong word. Eliminating a dangerous nest of super mutants for the Brotherhood was one thing. Rebuilding a giant, nuke-slinging, death robot was another. Targeting and destroying another faction over nothing more than ideological differences?

It was mass murder, and it wasn't gonna happen by her hand.

Maxson was wrong - she _did_ have a say in the matter. Her decision was remarkably easy to make - her career as a soldier in the Brotherhood of Steel had come to an end.

Nora took a deep breath and blew it back out. "Elder Maxson. If you'll recall, one of the first orders you personally gave to me was to take responsibility for the Commonwealth. I'm choosing to do that, but on my own terms. Anything to do with Prime and the destruction of the Institute I will make myself available for. Not as a Paladin, however, but as General of the Minutemen. Consider this my formal resignation from the Brotherhood of Steel."

Relief flooded through her – light, buoyant, effervescent. She was free.

Well, she _thought_ she was free.

"Denied." The word dropped like a stone, sucking the elation out of her and filling the air between them with a suffocating stillness.

Nora watched Maxson warily; if she had hackles, they would be raising. She thought for a moment, considering and weighing different responses, and decided on the direct approach. It had worked in her favor with the Elder on other occasions.

"I signed no paperwork. I agreed to no service commitment. I recited no oath. As such, my verbal resignation holds as much weight as whatever personnel forms or other methods the Brotherhood has chosen to adopt in these instances."

Her head swiveled to follow Maxson as he strode decisively to the door. With a few quick words from the Elder, the Knight stationed directly outside followed him back in.

"What is he doing here?" Nora fought to keep her tone even against the tide of panic that was quickly rising in her chest.

Maxson repositioned himself between Nora and the door and clasped his hands behind his back. "I have reason to believe that you are experiencing a mental breakdown, likely due to the stress of recent events. For this reason, you are being placed under temporary custody pending a full psychiatric evaluation with Knight-Captain Cade."

So he was playing the psych card? Clever of him. Also infuriating, using her PTSD against her. "I am NOT having a breakdown. Bring Cade in here and I'll prove it to you right now."

The Elder shook his head sharply and watched her with hooded eyes. "Negative. Knight-Captain Cade is in surgery and won't be free until later this afternoon. Until you can be safely placed in his care, you will be detained." Maxson gestured to the armored soldier at his side. "Knight, escort Paladin Sinclair to the airport and place her in the brig."

"Yes, sir," came the tinny, obedient reply.

Nora backed away from Elder and Knight. The situation had taken on a very distressing tone - one she'd personally witnessed two centuries earlier, where civilians were "detained" and forced to work on secret projects. Where protestors and rioters were shot on sight. Where power armor was used against United States and Canadian citizens instead of the Chinese.

The lines of Maxson's face and body were austere, and his eyes had changed from superheated to glacial. This was the Maxson she'd been prepared to kill at the bunker before he relented and allowed Danse to live. _This_ was the Maxson she feared. _This_ was the institution that ran the risk of becoming too much like its pre-war counterpart.

Her back butted up against the railing surrounding the windows. Nora's gaze rapidly flicked back and forth between Maxson and the Knight, judging distance and angle and success/fail percentages. The door at Maxson's back was the only way in or out of the command deck. She had two available options: break through the glass and plummet to her death, or make a run for the door and face the possibility of getting shot in the back by the Knight who was slowly advancing on her.

"You can't _do_ this," she hissed defiantly.

Deep inside, she knew Maxson could and would.

She was trapped.

* * *

The shock of being imprisoned - for that _was_ what this was called - didn't wear off for a while. Not until after she found herself dutifully secured in the brig by a Knight determined to follow his orders to the letter. The shock and fear and panic were all jumbled together, and each of the emotions spiked up randomly. Injury was added to insult when she found what passed as "the brig" was just a former janitor's closet. It made sense, in a weird, fucked up way. How often did good little Brothers and Sisters find themselves on her end of the stick? Not often, she guessed. It was probably used as more of a drunk tank if anything, for when med bay was too full.

Would Cade give her an honest evaluation or would he go along with whatever Maxson told him? _Shit, shit, shit._ She hugged her knees tightly to her chest as a wave of claustrophobia swept over her. It was too small in there. Barely bigger than…

 _Stop it. You're not crazy. Scared shitless, but not crazy. Not anymore._

She needed to change the fear into anger. Head clearing, adrenaline-producing anger, instead of will-sapping, foggy fear. Most occupants of this cell, if it had held any, would've been obedient, meekly awaiting whatever punishment Kells or Maxson doled out.

She raised her chin stubbornly. She was not meek and obedient, she was a resourceful survivor. And this closet was no cryopod, not even close.

Nora took stock. The small room was roughly three feet by five feet. Rusting metal shelves lined the concrete walls from floor to ceiling, and the only illumination came from a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. All she had to keep her company were rotting boxes of Abraxo, moldy mops, and a couple of dented buckets. Just supplies. Hopefully just supplies… Suspiciously, she eyed a large hole towards the bottom of one wall, half hidden behind a shelf. Anything that came crawling out of there was getting a boot to the face.

Nora stood up from the overturned wooden crate she'd found and irritably walked the pace and a half to the door. Time to test the waters again. "It's fucking cold in here. Could I get a blanket or something?" she complained.

The Knight who'd "escorted" her there ignored her request, just as he had the previous ones, and kept his back to her.

Nora pressed her nose against the heavy gauge wire mesh on the door, stuck her tongue out at the back of her provisional jailer, kicked the door, and stomped back to her makeshift seat. She sat down and fiddled with her Pip-Boy, trying to get a specific radio signal and failing at that too. Preston had been working on implementing a two-way radio system, but no luck so far. More working radio antennae across the Commonwealth were needed for that.

Again, her options were extremely limited. She'd either freeze to death, die of boredom, or get eaten by whatever might be living in the wall until Cade could make the time to officially certify she wasn't nuts. _If_ that was actually why she was being "detained" and not some shoddy excuse Maxson was using to force her to bend to his will. The more she thought about it, the more she was starting to doubt she'd get her walking papers, even after the psych eval.

She imagined Maxson twisting an imaginary mustache. _"You know too much, my dear. We'll never let you go."_

And then the light bulb began to flicker.

 _Fucking great._

Nora scooted her crate farther away from the hole and leaned forward slightly to watch it. Tiny cracks of light were visible from the outside, and it was definitely big enough for a small molerat to wriggle inside.

 _Hold on… what's that?_

A tiny symbol was scratched into the concrete near the hole, the white of the scratches contrasting with the aged darkness of the rest of the wall. Nora squinted. It looked like... a sun?

Her heart gave a gigantic leap. What had Deacon told her? What had she seen on that chalkboard in the corner of the room underneath the church? A cross meant danger. A plus sign meant an ally was nearby. Square meant cache.

 _Square meant cache! Ohmyfuckinggod._

Nora sprang to her feet and darted to the door. The Knight was still planted in front of the door, about four feet away. Perfect.

All thoughts of molerats gone, Nora dropped to her knees and crawled over to the wall. She had to duck her head under the bottom shelf of the unit in front of the hole. The position was awkward, but she didn't care one bit. She inserted her hand in the wall, blindly feeling around, until she encountered something that wasn't rubble or rebar.

 _Yessss! Careful, now…_

She gingerly lifted a small satchel out, biting her lip at the soft rattle of the contents. Nora was worried the guard would hear and she froze, ready to chuck the bag back in the hole and tell the guy she dropped a contact lens. She held her breath until her vision started to fade, but no curious and/or suspicious faces appeared in her window. Setting the bag down with hands trembling with anticipation, she loosened the neck of the satchel and peered inside.

Stimpak. Ammo. 10 mm pistol.

She clutched the bag to her chest.

 _Stealth boy. Fuck you, Arthur Maxson. I'm out._

Nora popped back up and looked out of the window on the door again. She knew exactly what escape route she needed to take - straight out past the shelves and crates of supplies and over the barrier that had been placed in the huge blown out hole in the outside wall. There was one little problem, though. The goddamn Knight was still standing there.

How on earth was she going to sneak by him?

 _Think, baby._

She didn't have to think. Seemed like she still had that lucky horseshoe shoved up her ass after all.

The unexpected sound of nearby gunfire caused both herself and the Knight to jump in unison. From behind a shelf, Lucia dropped her clipboard, picked up her rifle, and hurried out of sight. Uncertainly, the Knight swiveled his torso towards her, then back towards the gunfire.

 _Go. Go. Go. Get your ass moving!_ she silently urged.

Lucia popped back into view, her pretty face twisted with a snarl. "Ferals outside the compound!"

The Knight hesitated no longer. He drew his own rifle and pounded away out of sight.

Nora's left hand dove into her right breast pocket for a bobby pin the same instant her right hand thrust into her thigh pocket for her red-handled screwdriver. The area around the airport was under fairly secure control; directly around Prime doubly so. The sheer number of soldiers present would mean quick extermination of the ferals. She had very little time.

She crouched down and prodded the tumblers, seeking that sweet spot. Nervous sweat dampened her hands, but her streak of luck continued to hold out. The lock was an easy one, clicking open in seconds. Nora took a quick breath and turned the handle, wincing at the faint squeal. She eased the door open and pressed her eye to the crack, peering down the hallway to the left that led to Prime's gantry.

Nobody.

 _Go._

Stealth boy in hand, Nora slipped out of the door and shut it behind her. She darted forward two rows and crouched behind a large supply crate. Danse's duffel bag was on top of that supply crate, and she didn't intend on leaving without some of the contents. The Knight had almost forced her to leave it onboard the Prydwen, where she'd left it near the flight deck exit in anticipation of accepting her new mission and returning to the listening post right away. She'd pulled the Paladin card and won that round, but lost the next. The Knight had refused to let her bring it with into the closet. He'd also taken Kellogg's pistol from her and left it right next to the duffel. Sloppy, but that was today's military.

 _Fuck you, buddy. Look what I have back._

She regretted the necessity of leaving the whole bag behind, but it would be too difficult to try to smuggle it out along with herself. Nothing was in there that couldn't be replaced, with the exception of the cigar box that held Danse's mementoes. Nora grasped the tab of the zipper and started to ease it down. The box was right on top of everything else. Thank god she didn't have to open the bag all that far…

 _There. Got it._

Quickly, she unzipped her uniform and shoved the whole box inside against her stomach. The corners were uncomfortably sharp, but it would have to do for now until she could redistribute the contents. It was time to go. She grabbed her pistol, shoved it in the holster on her leg, and started edging forward towards the exit.

That's when the luck she'd been experiencing took a nosedive. Lucia's quick footsteps marked her imminent return, followed by the heavy thudding footfalls of the Knight. Quickly, Nora scuttled back between the shelves and flipped up the canvas top of the stealth boy. She pressed the little red button, shimmering out of view just as Lucia appeared.

Thirty seconds. She only had thirty seconds. Seven of them were spent waiting for Lucia to round the corner and walk past Nora's still, sweating, frantically praying figure: _don't come down this row, don't come down this row_. Another five were wasted while the Knight took his sweet ass time doing the same. As soon as the Knight cleared her airspace, Nora began to creep forward towards the hole in the wall, one foot at a time. Her left hand was occupied by the stealth boy, the other held out to the side in an effort to keep her balance.

 _Ten._

 _Nine._

 _Eight._

 _Seven._

 _Six._

Nora reached the barrier and wasted another second to look behind her. The Knight was approaching the door of the closet.

 _Four._

"Fuck! She's gone!"

 _Three._

Nora jumped to her feet and gracelessly dove over the barrier. She landed poorly on her shoulder when she tucked and rolled, but somehow managed to keep hold of the stealth boy. The cigar box badly gouged her abdomen, forcing the breath out of her lungs with an audible, pained wheeze. She scrambled around an old pile of tires to the right of the hole just as she felt the heavy footsteps of the Knight vibrating the concrete of the wall to at her back.

 _Two._

 _One._

Her heart was hammering in her throat and sweat was dripping into her eyes as she crab-walked behind a straggly bush. With a vicious over arm hook, she lobbed the used stealth boy over the top of the bush just as she saw her arm blink back into sight. The stealth boy bounced off one of the extended jetways overhead and fell to the ground, drawing the Knight's attention.

 _Decoy successfully deployed. Toodles, bitches._

Nora grinned and darted forward to the shoreline. There were plenty of downed jetliners and other vehicles scattered around to hide behind. As soon as she was clear of the airport, she'd scrounge or buy something else to wear and get rid of the bright orange Brotherhood of Steel uniform.

 _Now_ she was free.


	9. Chapter 9

Cautiously, Nora poked her torso out of the elevator and paused, cocking her head to listen. Silence. No… not total silence. The low background hum of the fluorescent lighting now met her ears. That was it, though. Nothing else. The listening post was as silent as a …

 _Let's leave it there, yeah?_

She cast a practiced eye along the wall to her right, automatically searching for booby traps. Danse was a resourceful man - she had no doubt he could fashion crude explosives out of the bits and pieces that had been left in the bunker. Again, there was nothing. No resurrected Protectrons, no tripwires, just the same busted up equipment that had been lying around for the last two centuries.

She narrowed her eyes. Something _had_ changed, though. A prickle of unease rippled up her spine. Had Maxson been pissed enough at her escape to send someone else to finish the job, then? A vertibird could've easily beaten her to the listening post, taken care of unfinished business, and departed with none the wiser. She'd heard plenty of them buzzing overhead after she'd bugged out.

No. Danse had said Maxson wouldn't do that. She had to trust his judgment on this.

Nonetheless, her hand drifted to the butt of Kellogg's pistol. Nora shifted the strap of the rucksack on her shoulder, crouched down slightly, and duck walked as quietly as she could on the debris-strewn floor. She was too short to see over the equipment in front of the elevator. Maybe she could see between them, if she edged forward enough?

She paused again and tilted her head to the side, eyeing the blasted in glass of a small screen set inside a bigger frame.

 _Wait a minute... This piece wasn't here before, was it?_

Nora grimaced sheepishly and rose from her half-crouch. Danse had done some redecorating, that was all. He'd muscled more of the heavy equipment over, creating a sort of funnel into the right corner of the room. A kill chute, she realized, straight out of _The Wasteland Survival Guide_ , issue 14: The Scrapyard Home Decoration Guide.

 _Kill chute. Right._

It would be best to announce her presence. Imperative, even.

"Danse? It's me. Nora, I mean," she called out, and then wrinkled her nose in self-deprecation. _Who else would "me" mean?_

There was no response. Was he even down there? Had he gone on patrol or something? Out for supplies? Unlikely, she thought after a second, given the relative security of the bunker. They'd scrounged enough food and water above and below for a day or two. It was amazing, the way one could find randomly placed cans of Cram tucked here and there in the wasteland. Plus, she'd only been gone for six hours or so, even with the quick jaunt into Bunker Hill to replace the duffel bag she'd left behind at the airport.

Nora edged around the end of the bank of machinery, then gasped and rocked back on her heels. Danse _was_ down there, standing in the middle of the room with the butt of his weapon firmly pressed against his shoulder. The wary, intent expression on his face eased as soon as he confirmed who the interloper was, and the laser rifle pointed at her forehead was instantly lowered.

"Ohmygod, you scared me to death," she huffed. Nora swung the bag out of the way behind her back and raised her hands towards the ceiling playfully. "Don't shoot. I surrender."

"The gesture is appreciated, but your surrender isn't necessary," Danse drily replied. A small smile tugged the corner of his mouth, which she returned.

He turned to set his rifle on a nearby table and while his attention was diverted, Nora took the opportunity to drink the sight of him in with wide eyes. Thirsty eyes. The arms of his uniform were still tied around his waist, as they'd been last night and early that morning. His white tank top held fresh streaks of dirt and something darker, possibly grease, as well as some pink scrapes here and there on his exposed skin. Right. He'd been busy redecorating.

 _God, he was a sight for sore eyes._

"Hey," she said softly.

Danse glanced back at her, cocking an eyebrow. Nora let the strap of the bag slide from her shoulder; it dropped to the concrete with a soft thunk. She wiped suddenly damp palms on the seat of her leather pants and stepped towards him.

"You have a cobweb in your hair. Here, let me…"

 _Why am I so damn nervous?_

Rising on tiptoe, Nora placed her right hand on his chest and lifted the left up, brushing at the dusty filaments that clung to his dark hair. Danse inclined his head, patiently allowing her to remove the cobweb; his warm, Nuka Cola scented breath washed over her face as he did so. She felt a tide of pink rise high in her cheeks at the memory of how she'd so brazenly caressed him early that morning, but like a moth to flame, she still couldn't help herself. Removing the cobweb was as much an excuse to touch him as it was to tidy him up.

"There. All gone," she murmured huskily. She dared to brush her knuckles over his cheekbone with one last, slow stroke, then Nora rolled the web between her fingers and flicked it away.

Her boot heels met the floor once again, but she kept her hand on his chest. The other rested on his shoulder, idly plucking at the strap of his tank top. She gazed up at him, eyes roaming over his face for any signs of distress that might've crept in during her absence, mental or otherwise. She saw nothing immediately apparent; his face was open and relaxed, if tired looking.

There was so much to say, so many things she needed to tell him, but they all fled her mind at the close proximity of his body to hers. All of the doubts and fears that nagged at her during her return trip to the listening post - _Maxson, Nate, Shaun, Institute, Brotherhood, Minutemen_ \- simply evaporated as her heart rate picked up. Right at that moment, nothing mattered more than the confused awareness that entered the warm brown of his eyes, except perhaps the small red patches that rose on his own cheeks. And possibly the hesitant way he settled his hands at her waist.

"Thank you," he said after a long, drawn out moment of shared, electrified silence.

"You're welcome. Wait. For what?" Nora looked at him blankly.

"The cobweb," he prompted.

"Oh. That. Yeah."

Nora felt uncomfortably awkward. She was totally, overwhelmingly aware, so aware, of everything about him and how they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She licked suddenly dry lips with an equally dry tongue.

 _Did he feel this too?_

"Umm, Danse, I -"

"You've changed." The confusion deepened; a small furrow dented his brow.

 _Yes. Irrevocably._

"Nope. Still the same old me," she lied. "Warts and all."

Nora closed her eyes briefly in dismay. _Oh my fucking GOD._

"Uh, scratch that. No warts."

"I meant your clothing. You're not in uniform." His eyes swept down the line of her body, taking in the black leather that had replaced Brotherhood orange. His all-too perceptive gaze sharpened as self-conscious man turned back into hyperaware soldier. "Is something wrong?"

The sudden gear change was difficult; her brain ground to a halt. The shift between breathless anticipation and normality felt like a bucket of cold water. Nora shook her head to clear the inner cobwebs and tried to focus.

 _Maxson. Resignation. Jailbreak._

"Uniform? I… well…" she floundered to a halt.

Danse ducked his head down to peer into her eyes. "What _happened_?" he asked very pointedly.

Uneasily, Nora dropped her gaze to a smear of grease on his shoulder. She rubbed at it with her thumb, but only succeeded in smearing it into a larger patch.

"Well, plans have… changed a tiny bit," she hedged.

Tension crept into the muscles under her palms. "Plans have…" he echoed. Danse tightened the hands at her waist. "Report, soldier," he said quietly and firmly. "I want a full report."

 _No. Not yet. Not until I've figured out how to tell you._

"Look, Danse. It doesn't matter what happened. I need to check in with Preston -"

His fingers squeezed again. "Nora."

Nora eyed him and uncertainly nibbled on her bottom lip. She'd hoped to get through at least a day or two before having to break the news to him, but now she didn't really have a choice. There was no use trying to prevaricate any longer.

She sighed heavily. "Maxson promoted me. Into your position, into your quarters, and into your power armor. Danse, I… I'm sorry." She curved her hand around the back of his neck. "I didn't ask for it. I didn't want it," she finished miserably.

Her head sagged forward, forehead resting on his collarbone.

Danse settled his chin lightly on the top of her head and he shifted his grasp, drawing her closer. His hand absently rubbed up and down her back. After a moment, he spoke. "I believe I understand. You assumed I'd be upset with your promotion. Perhaps you also thought I'd resent being replaced?" he asked thoughtfully.

Nora nodded against his chest.

"That couldn't be farther from the truth. If I had the misfortune to become incapacitated in any way, I'd always hoped Maxson would pick you as my successor." His hands slid up and squeezed her shoulders encouragingly.

Nora lifted her head and shook it sharply. "No, Danse. I didn't want it. It felt wrong." Her skin crawled at the thought and she shivered against him.

Sympathy filled his face. "I can understand your hesitation, given the… unusual circumstances of your promotion. But consider this: your field training is complete. Only study of the Brotherhood Codex and history remain. Proctor Quinlan and Elder Maxson will see to that."

Danse released his hold on her and stepped back. He straightened with parade ground precision and thumped his fist to his chest. "Congratulations. You'll make an exceptional Paladin." His face softened and a soft, proud smile touched his lips. "With your talents, I have no doubt you'll even make Star Paladin someday. I sincerely look forward to that day."

Nora shifted from foot to foot wretchedly. He really meant it – every word - and now she had to burst that bubble, too. All of the elation she'd felt earlier was gone. What a fucking mess this had become.

 _Well, might as well get it over with._

Deflated, she sighed. "Save your congratulations, Danse. No more salutes, either. I resigned. As of this morning, I'm no longer a member of the Brotherhood of Steel."

For a moment, he didn't respond. He just shook his head in disbelief and blinked rapidly, then stuttered, "You… you what? I don't understand. Why would you…"

"… _do something so stupid?"_ hung silently in the air.

"It was an easy decision, Danse. I was ordered to do something just... horrible. I can't say worse than being ordered to kill you, because…" Hot tears stung her eyes and her breath snagged in her throat.

She swallowed hard and shakily continued. "Maxson ordered me to report to Kells for my next mission. Turns out that mission would've been infiltrating Railroad HQ and… and _massacring_ everyone. I refused. Gave Maxson my resignation right after that."

Danse took another step backward and his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Are you telling me you disobeyed a direct order from a senior officer?" he breathed incredulously. Heavy disapproval colored his voice; a scowl just as heavy pinched his features.

"Danse?" she said cautiously. "I… I know you must be upset about the whole situation, but just –"

Rudely, he interrupted her. "Upset? Damn right I am, Sinclair. I trained you better than that."

 _What?_

Her head was whirling. Danse was totally missing the point, either out of pure stubbornness or sheer obtuseness. Was he seriously upset with her for refusing to execute a bunch of people? He was expecting her to do so, just because Kells had said so? Dazed, she watched the way his shoulders were rising and falling with each quick, angry breath he took.

Fucking A. He _was_ , and she hadn't even gotten to the part about getting locked up and escaping.

Nora started trembling. _No, no. NO._

"Two missions in a row, Danse. Two times in a row I was ordered to commit murder on behalf of the Brotherhood. That's not me. That's not who I am. I couldn't do it. I won't do it." There was no disguising the plaintive plea in her voice.

His hand slashed through the air in rejection of her argument. "Synths are the enemy. The Railroad aids and abets those… abominations. By default, the Railroad becomes the enemy as well. The term is elimination, not murder. You were ordered to eliminate a very real threat, both to the Brotherhood and the Commonwealth."

With panicky determination, Nora stepped forward into the space he'd placed between them. She had to make him listen to what she was saying.

"Don't let the bigotry of the Brotherhood cloud your mind. Not now. Not after yesterday. I _know_ you. You're better than that."

She placed a shaky hand over his heart; Danse flinched away from her touch.

She dropped her arm heavily and took a stumbling step back, away from her Paladin who wasn't a Paladin anymore because he was a synth. A synth who was telling her she was supposed to follow her orders and kill other synths. The paradox was too much for her to wrap her brain around. Not when her world was crumbling.

 _Oh, my God. This isn't happening. This can't be happening._

Danse's voice was low and hard. "You're asking me to overlook a willful refusal to obey a direct order. Furthermore, you're asking me to discard a lifetime of Brotherhood training."

Hollowly, Nora replied, "And you're asking me to slaughter innocent civilians after a lifetime of watching the Chinese do the same. I might've skipped over a chunk of that life, but two hundred years later murder is still murder."

She thrust an arm up, gesturing to the world above their heads. "Now I have to watch the Institute do the same damn thing in this lifetime. Do you even understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Danse's eyes were dark with agony and indecision; his shoulders slumped. He was obviously fighting an internal battle. He wavered, the anger and disgust softening into sorrow. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then he shook his head slowly, sadly.

Cold fear congealed in her guts. Her instincts had been right after all. She should've never left him alone. She should've stayed by his side until his head was straight, no matter how long it would've taken.

"Danse. Please don't do this," she whispered, frightened to the core of her being.

 _I'll die if I lose you._

"You should've carried out the orders you'd been given, Nora. Not refuse them. Not even for my sake."

Frustrated with his single-mindedness and blind devotion, Nora lashed out. "Not even for you? You'd be dead, Danse. Dozens of other people would be dead. _Fuck_ those orders."

Immediately, she realized it was the wrong thing to say.

"You should have carried out the mission as ordered," he enunciated slowly. Danse straightened his back again and lifted his chin. "Did your training mean nothing to you? Your decision is a disappointment. I expected much better of you."

"Likewise." Nora crossed her trembling arms over her chest and tilted her own chin up. "Where does this leave us, then?"

She could only answer for herself – it left her with a broken heart. It left her empty and aching and chilled to the bone. Didn't he understand? He was her fire. He was the only thing that kept her from refreezing.

Sorrowfully, Danse shook his head. "I… don't know. I never dreamed anything could divide us like this." Honest surprise tinged with regret colored his voice.

"Yeah, well apparently the Brotherhood still can," she said bitterly.

She was waiting for him to say something, anything, but his silence spoke volumes.

"Right. I know where I fall into your hierarchy now. What is it you're always spouting? There's Brotherhood and there's everything else, and I'm not Brotherhood anymore. They discarded you like a worthless piece of garbage and you'd go crawling back in a heartbeat, wouldn't you? Even if it meant your execution."

Tightly, he replied, "Yes. I would."

The room started spinning, around and around and around until she felt like puking. The overhead lighting was unbearably bright and it was getting harder to breathe by the second.

"Then there isn't anything more to say, is there?" she managed.

Danse's face was inscrutable, eyes dark with emotion. Nora averted her gaze, focusing on a piece of rebar sticking out of the wall over his shoulder. If she looked at him, she'd start bawling. She'd start begging him not to leave her, but it was already too late for that, wasn't it? She'd unknowingly – blindly, _stupidly_ – set herself down a new path that morning, one he was apparently unwilling to take with her.

"I gave Sturges a copy of the holotape. He was working on finding a way inside the Institute. I'm going to Sanctuary." Her voice cracked on the last word. She needed to get out of there before the panic attack overtook her.

Nora turned on her heel and careened back around the bank of consoles, bouncing off the wall before she could steady herself. She entered the elevator and slammed her fist against the button, then again and again until she felt something inside her hand crack when it didn't respond immediately. Tears started to trickle from the corners of her eyes when she rested her head back against the rusting interior of the car. In seconds, they were a steady flow, drip-dripping onto her black leather jacket as the doors and world closed in around her. Her back slid down the wall until she was sitting on her haunches, cradling her injured hand against her chest.

On her way back to the listening post, she'd constructed an elaborate fantasy in her head of how this was supposed to go. Danse was supposed to drop whatever was in his hands and stride over to her. He was supposed to put his hands on her shoulders, squeeze gently, and pull her against his chest. That was supposed to be her cue to stand on tiptoe, cup his face in her hands, and confess how she felt about him. Later, they'd both have a laugh about how she managed to slip out of Maxson's clutches. They'd go on to defeat the Institute and save the Commonwealth, then live happily ever after. The end.

She hadn't imagined how horribly wrong things could actually go. Nora covered her mouth with her palm to muffle her sobs.

A/N: no magical suit of X-01 appears out of nowhere for Danse.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a grazing rad stag, of all things, that nearly killed her. Not a grievously broken heart, but a buck, glowing with a phosphorescence noticeable even in the slanting rays of the setting sun. Noticeable if she'd been paying attention, if her mind wasn't fragmented and spinning. It was her error. She was focusing too hard on the tiny green statue symbol on the screen of her Pip-Boy that would lead her home.

The instant she emerged from waist-high scrub brush into a rock-strewn clearing just north and east of Bedford Station, the spooked beast reared up and struck out with its muscular forelegs. Her training kicked in and Nora dove to the right and rolled, rising up on knees spread wide for balance. The webbing between thumb and forefinger snugged into the notched grip of her handgun, but when her fingers began to curl around the rest of the grip, she felt an excruciating wave of pain shoot up the nerves of her wrist from the already injured hand. The gun tumbled uselessly to the ground and slid away, just out of reach.

Her mind inserted a diagnosis - _boxer's fracture_ \- even as she cursed and threw herself sideways to recover the pistol with her good hand. The stag's razor sharp hooves flashed out again and stabbed into the earth next to her, narrowly missing her head and forcing her to roll again away from the gun. Once she returned to her stomach, Nora scrambled aside awkwardly on elbows and knees, hampered by the fractured hand. Dirt shot out from under the toes of her boots and loose shards of slaty rock lacerated her palms when she made another attempt to regain her feet. She fell again, this time knocking her shoulder against a smallish boulder and gaining a mouthful of dirt for her efforts.

 _Too tired. Too slow. Too late._

Rolling to one side, Nora threw her arm up in front of her face and whimpered as the buck pawed the ground and lowered its heads to run her through with the pointed spread of its antlers. Just as it gathered its forequarters to charge, she heard the unmistakable report of a laser rifle. A neat hole sizzled through the neck of the buck, vaporizing the bone, muscle, and tissue within. She grimaced with revulsion as she found she was able to look straight through it to the treeline beyond the clearing before it keeled over slowly, froth still bubbling at both mouths.

It had been a beautiful shot. Precise. Just in the nick of time. Could've only come from one particular rifle that she could think of. Nora turned her head in time to see Danse's orange-clad body step into view.

 _Yep. Fuck._

She hadn't known he was following her. If she had, she probably wouldn't have stopped a few miles back to have a nice hard cry against the trunk of a Corvega. She would've kept her shit together and kept marching. Better yet, she would've pointed her ass south and disappeared into the alleys of Goodneighbor for a nice long binge. A month sounded about right.

Nora pulled her still-shaky knees back underneath her and pushed off of the ground with her uninjured hand, spitting out specks of dirt as she rose. The acutely overwhelming scents of cooked flesh and burnt hair that rose from the stag made Nora's gorge rise as she bent over the still-smoking carcass to retrieve her gun. She straightened and turned her head into the wind, breathing deeply of the cool air. It was just as well she hadn't yet eaten that day or her Sugar Bombs would've likely ended up in a puddle at her feet.

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Danse jump down from the grassy mound he'd been standing on and approach her slowly. He came to a halt a half dozen paces away, as if he was unwilling to come any closer. As if she were the wild creature instead of the poor dead thing at her feet. His unexpected appearance only highlighted the fact that she thought she had been, and still technically was, alone out here. They weren't travelling together, no matter what his presence and his intervention meant.

Nora leaned further into the wind, hoping the strengthening evening breeze that was ruffling her hair would also dry the welling tears.

"I suppose I should thank you," she said stiffly.

The answering rumble of his baritone was uncharacteristically short and clipped. "You were unprepared and sloppy." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod towards the hand she tucked against her chest. "And already injured. How?"

For someone so hot to the touch, Danse was capable of turning a remarkably frigid shoulder. Nora slanted her head away so she could no longer see him at all.

"Does it really matter?"

He scornfully replied, "Don't be ridiculous. An injury like that shouldn't have been left untreated. Look what nearly happened."

Nora sniffed and swiped at her eyes. The damned breeze wasn't working to dry her tears, nor was the leather of her sleeve effectively absorbing the proof now evident on her cheeks. Therefore, she pivoted on her heel to face him and tipped her chin up defiantly.

"Guess we're even then. I saved your ass, you saved mine."

The quick movements of Danse's hands on the buckles of the pack she'd left behind in the listening post faltered as their eyes met for the first time in hours. Seeing the guarded, almost distrustful way he was looking at her, she wished they hadn't. She should turn around and just walk away. But she couldn't. All she could do is stand there like an idiot, watching him pull a stimpak out.

 _FUCK._

Nora pinched the bridge of her nose and struggled to rein her temper in. "Why are you even following me?"

She thought it was a fair question, all things considered. Perhaps Danse thought otherwise. He dropped the rucksack and shifted on the balls of his feet, widening his stance and angling his body to fully face hers. Drawn to the motion, Nora's gaze flicked downwards to his lean hips and she considered what the tell might mean in Danse-speak. Was she an enemy now, either through association or disassociation? Or was he simply here to continue their fight?

She returned to his face. It was shuttered, as it hadn't been since those very early days of their relationship when neither was all that sure of the other. Boxers, each retreating to their separate corners for another round. Whatever he thought of her now, the set of his jaw made it clear he had his guard up, now that she'd delivered the first figurative punch.

"I made a vow to watch your back. I fully intend on honoring that vow." He nudged the dead radstag with the toe of his boot. "It seems my instincts were correct. You're in no condition to be out here alone."

Danse shifted again. She chose to interpret the small movement as … discomfort? No, that wasn't quite right. It was distaste, then, that he was feeling. The last vestige of duty towards a woman he chose to reject out of duty to an organization that had in return, rejected him.

She narrowed her eyes. "Be careful, Danse. You sound like you actually give a fuck."

In return, he glared at her from under lowered brows. "I certainly care about more than just myself. Did you ever stop to think how your resignation would affect everyone around you? Or were you only thinking about yourself, like some..." he shoved his hand through his hair, grasping for words.

"Prima donna? Prewar debutante?" she inserted, the words coated with saccharine sweetness.

It cut too close to the bone. The blade lodged there, right in her sternum, and god, did it hurt. Maybe she'd been like that once, but not anymore. Swiftly, Nora rounded the carcass and closed the gap he'd left between them.

"Is that all you think I am? Sheltered and selfish? Do you think I need a big, strong man to make my decisions for me?" She fluttered her eyelashes mockingly. "I don't. I'll be fine. But that doesn't change the fact that you gave up on me so easily. You weren't supposed to do that," she spat. "You weren't _ever_ supposed to _do_ that. I thought I meant more to you than that."

"I wasn't the one who gave up. My whole life I've fought for what I believed in, Sinclair. I gave you the chance at a new life and you walked away from it. You abandoned your responsibilities like a _child_ would." Molten anger burned underneath the words.

"Only a child would follow orders blindly without regard for the consequences," she snapped back. "I'd do it again and again and again if it meant saving your stubborn ass, or Preston's, Nick's. Anybody, synth or not. The Railroad had it right all along."

His jaw and fists bunched and his shoulders heaved. "Listen to yourself. I don't even know who you are right now."

"That's an unfair accusation. I'm the person I've always been. You just didn't want to see it, did you?"

Danse curled his lip in disgust. "Stop it. Take off your jacket so I can stim you. We still have a long journey ahead of us."

She jerked in surprise. "You're following me. To Sanctuary."

"Yes."

Nora shook her head. "You're _following_ me?" she repeated dumbly. Danse scowled at her in reply.

Her heart spun into a wild pirouette, undaunted by the fury in his face and voice and all of the bitter exchanges they'd had. A small hopeful voice inside her head echoed the two most important words he'd just said. _We? Us?_

As she suddenly saw it, she had two options. Two possible responses. The first would be to allow her pride and rage to get the better of her. _No. I'm done with you and your precious Brotherhood trying to tell me what to do. Fuck off and leave me alone._

Nora chose the second option because she was weak. She _was_ selfish. Too fucking stubborn. Miserable. Heartsick.

In love.

She leaned forward and looked up into his face. "I can't do this by myself. I need your help."

His hands had already impatiently arrived at the tab of her zipper when she saw him recognize the raw emotion in her voice and register the possibility that _I need your help_ might mean something entirely different than helping her undo her jacket.

"Danse, I need _you_ ," she whispered into the pause. "There's never been a minute where I haven't."

His fingers shook, just a tiny bit, as each tooth separated and parted slowly over her black tank top. The two halves of the zipper released and his eyes lowered, but he didn't remove his hands. In fact, he gripped the edges of her jacket tightly until his knuckles turned white.

It was enough, just enough. It was what she needed, the sign she was silently praying for.

 _We. Us._

Nora wasn't sure if this was going to work, but she had to try. She _had_ to. He was worth it.

She slowly reached up and curled her fingers around his wrists. Her breath hissed out at the sharp spike of pain, but it was vital that she touch him. She dropped her eyes and looked down, taking in the sight of their almost-joined hands. Other than the quick rise and fall of his chest, he held completely still, frozen in place.

"Danse?" She said his name softly, coaxingly. "Look at me."

His eyes flicked up and the black expanded until only a thin rim of beautiful whiskey brown was visible.

 _Safe, familiar. Mine._

Nora slid her palms up and rested them on the backs of his hands. How many times had those hands helped her? Steadied her? No. She wasn't about to give him up. Not if she could still fight for him.

"Look at what you have in front of you, Danse."

His fingers clenched spasmodically beneath hers and the lines around his eyes and mouth tightened. "Do you realize what you're asking of me?"

"I'm asking you to trust me. We can work on the rest together."

It was her turn to freeze. He was watching her so very closely, examining each feature so minutely, that she had to break away from the intensity. She concentrated on the buckle of his collar and held her breath, waiting for his answer.

When the answer came, spoken in that rich, dark voice of his, it almost killed her again.

"Nora. Let go of me."

She rocked back on her feet and let her arms fall limply to her sides. It hadn't worked. She'd lost him after all.

 _Too tired. Too slow. Too late._

Nora flinched when he reached out and slid his fingertips underneath the ball chain that rested on her collarbone.

 _Of course. He wanted his holotags back._

But instead of pulling the chain up over her head, he gently tugged the tags free from their resting place between her breasts and cupped them in his hand.

"You're wearing them." It was neither question nor statement, but caught somewhere in between. Danse passed his thumb over the barcode etched along the edge.

Nora answered with a bare whisper. "Always."

He was regarding her steadily now. No barriers, no evasion. Just him, as tired and beat up and maybe even as heartbroken as she was. It was his hurt that finally made the tears flow down her cheeks uninterrupted. His hurt, not hers, that caused her to wrap her fingers around his and guide the holotags up to her lips.

Abruptly, Danse released the tags, leaving her trembling like a leaf. He took a small step back and bent over to retrieve the stimpak that had fallen to the ground at some point. Jesus, she hadn't even noticed. He bit the needle cap in his teeth and twisted it off, muttering, "take your jacket off" around it.

Bewildered, breathless, and daring to hope, Nora rolled her shoulders to work the jacket down her upper arms. The silken lining finished what she'd started, sliding it the rest of the way down her bare arms easily. Danse caught it before it fell and slung it over his shoulder.

Her Paladin - because that's what he'd always be to her, no matter what - pressed his thumb firmly against her upper deltoid. "Loosen up your muscle. Let your arm dangle. That's better."

The sting of the needle and painful burn of reknitting bone was nothing compared to the pressure she felt in eyes and throat. When he was finished, Danse recapped the used syringe and tucked it into his thigh pocket. He took her jacket off his shoulder and shook it out, holding it open for her to slide her arms back in.

Once the jacket was back in place, he watched her slip the holotags back underneath her tank top. Back next to her heart, where they belonged.

Danse took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "I'll escort you to Sanctuary. Beyond that... " He shook his head.

 _Boxers, each retreating to their separate corners for another round._


	11. Chapter 11

_"Look at what you have in front of you, Danse."_

He'd been looking. All the way back to Sanctuary, he'd been looking, with eyes fastened on the black leather covering Nora's back and that sentence playing on repeat in his mind. Danse was confused as he'd ever been as a result. As evening slipped into night and their boots ate away the klicks, he'd diligently been attempting to sort out the tangle of emotions he felt, but it seemed a nearly impossible task. Anger, disappointment, hurt — they all clung together, shifting and pulsing, each swallowing the next before he could start to get a handle on any one of them.

Now that the familiar, softly lit Red Rocket towered over them, now that their journey had come to an end on the broken asphalt of a pre-war filling station, he was no closer to resolving anything. In fact, he felt like he was drowning even more now than the horrible moment Nora had told him she'd resigned from the Brotherhood. For the second time in as many days, his world was rocked to its core and he was left foundering.

One of the coolant hoses cast a moon shadow directly over Nora's eyes, leaving them as shadowed as her intentions. Danse slid the rucksack strap off of his shoulder and let it slide to the ground.

"Well, here we are. Final stop."

Her voice was so soft and thin sounding, he nearly missed the first couple of words. Danse heard the question behind the words, though. He wasn't ready to give her an answer yet, because he didn't have one. The logic centers of his brain were telling him he should follow through with his original plan of leaving the Commonwealth to strike out on his own. Leave this all behind for a fresh start.

His heart… it was doing whatever it was that synthetic hearts did. Aching, mostly, which seemed to him like a disconcerting factory defect. Too bad a stimpak wouldn't relieve this heartache as it had done for the pain of Nora's injured hand.

"How is it?" he asked gruffly.

Nora's brows drew together and she tilted her head.

"The hand," he clarified. It dangled by her side now, fingers clenching and uncurling absently. "Has it fully healed?"

Raising her arm, she flexed her fingers and made a fist. "Yes. Much better, thank you," she replied in an equally husky voice.

She opened her mouth to say something more, hesitated, and shook her head instead. His mind was capable of inserting one particular line of unspoken dialogue on its own, as it had been doing for hours: _"Look at what you have in front of you, Danse."_

The echo of the words she'd spoken took the breath right out of him yet again, leaving him staring mutely at Nora. He'd only just started to realize what she might mean to him that very morning. Not when she was in front of him as she'd said, but underneath.

She'd never been able to hide anything from him. Not for long, not when he'd come to know her inside and out. That morning, he saw a new, unfamiliar light enter her eyes as his body hovered mere inches above hers. It was similar to the affection that often glowed there, but this time it was somehow more intense and focused. It shifted into something darker and slumberous right before her hips tilted towards him and her lips parted invitingly to whisper his name.

Right at that moment, in the very bunker where he'd fled to end his unnatural existence one way or the other, he began to dream of a life with Nora. Forty-five percent of his brain had actively been considering that future. Another forty-five was processing various scenarios on what might happen if he lowered himself down onto her fully and captured her lush mouth with his.

It was the remaining ten percent that stopped him cold. The ten percent that was still her commanding officer, not her lover. Not a high percentage by any means, but enough to cause him to scramble away from her. Like the greenest of initiates, he was forced to turn to the wall with clenched fists and gritted teeth and wait for his painfully hard erection to subside.

Had she come after him, though...

 _Enough. Control yourself, soldier._

Perhaps he was too controlled, however? Too rigid and inflexible. Perhaps if he'd been less of a martinet, Nora would still be a member of the Brotherhood. Had he failed yet again? He had to know.

"Is your decision final? You won't reconsider?" he asked quietly.

Nora rocked back on her heels as if he'd physically struck her. "Yes. No."

And so they stood there in the former parking lot of the Red Rocket station, staring at each other warily from two paces. The situation was just like something from an old Western holotape. The only difference was the time of day — edging toward midnight with the full moon high overhead, instead of the hot sun of high noon.

She stepped back a pace and the shadow slid off her face. The moonlight washed all trace of color out of her, leaving her unnaturally pale. Perhaps she truly was though, because he felt just as lifeless.

"Sinclair… Nora —"

"Danse, don't. Just let me say my piece, okay?"

His hands clenched into fists at his side. For the first time in years of potentially fabricated memories, he was afraid.

'I did some thinking on the way here. I don't blame you if you… if you decide to leave." She tilted her head forward so he couldn't see her face anymore and poked a broken piece of asphalt with her toe.

"Christ. This is so fucking hard, Danse."

Her palms swiped over her cheeks, and he realized then that she was crying. The silvery tear tracks the moon picked out when she tipped her head back up were far more devastating than he could've ever imagined.

"Nora…" he began.

She slashed out her hands as if to ward off his words. "Just shut up. Here. I have something to give you first."

Unzipping her jacket, Nora slipped her hand inside and withdrew a cigarette pack. She tossed it towards his chest, but he uncharacteristically fumbled the catch. The pack dropped to his feet. It could wait. There were more important things to see to.

Nora stared at the pack for a long moment, then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, but it's all I managed to save. I had to leave the rest behind. All of it."

She squared her shoulders and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Do me a favor. Stay the night here. Just until morning. Then if you decide that you truly can't forgive me, just… just go. I'm not not sure if you've looked in the duffel at all, but I stopped in Bunker Hill and got you some supplies. You're so big, the clothes might not fit…"

She trailed off miserably. Her head swiveled to the north, gaze pointing towards the vault buried in the bluff overlooking the river. When she turned her head back to him, the lines of her face were hard and her voice became a low snarl, lashing out with unexpected viciousness.

"You told me you'd never leave me, but I realize that people sometimes make promises they can't keep. Nate told me the same thing. If… when you leave, it's going to destroy me. Do me a solid and just get the fuck out of here if that's your decision."

The words that she was speaking were too final. Too brutal. She'd effectively flipped the tables on him, hadn't she? Hadn't he spoken so brutally to her earlier that afternoon?

"Don't do this, Nora." It wasn't his brain that spoke, it was his aching heart.

For a second, her shoulders hunched inward and her hair fell into her face. She took a tiny quarter step forward, but jerked to a halt. She turned her face into the darkness and bit back a sob.

"I need to. I'm sorry. After all we've been through together, I'm sure you understand why. Stay safe, whatever you do. Wherever you go."

Her voice broke, in turn breaking what was left of his heart. She turned and walked away from him then, back arrow-straight and footsteps steady and even. Danse watched until she disappeared around the bend leading to the Old North Bridge, cursing himself silently with each step that took her away from him. She didn't look back once.

The involuntary step he took towards her retreating figure crunched something underfoot. Danse looked down and saw the cigarette pack she'd tossed to him under the toe of his boot. All she'd managed to save, she'd said…

He stooped down to pick up the pack and flipped the top open. The faint blue glow within told him what was inside before he even tipped the contents out into his palm. How often had he held these tags in his hands, just like this? And this photo, carefully folded into quarters? He knew every millimeter of those blood smears. Every grain of this photo. They were all he had left of Cutler.

Danse tipped the pack upside down and shook, then swept his forefinger inside. There was nothing else in there. The photo of Nora was missing, likely overlooked when she retrieved his belongings, tucked as it was underneath the liner of the cigar box.

He sighed heavily and tucked the precious belongings inside a zippered pocket on his arm. The other photo had been just as carefully memorized. Just as precious. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with the fact, but he had finally accepted he'd developed… feelings for the Nora in the picture. It had been relatively harmless to care for the picture Nora because she simply didn't exist anymore. That world and the girl who'd lived in it were gone. He'd been unable to reconcile the happy, vivacious girl in the photo to the shattered Nora he knew until she'd smiled at him for the first time. She'd smiled just like the Nora in the photo. He'd been utterly unprepared for the beautiful brilliance of it, and utterly unprepared when the two Noras had merged into one like a stereoscopic image.

The revelation left him fighting to regain control of himself. As soon as they'd returned to the Prydwen, he'd tucked the photo away. It was too dangerous.

Danse scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He was uncomfortably aware that he was now in her shoes. He wasn't the Danse he'd been yesterday. That life had been stripped from him, leaving him… Leaving him what, and where?

A familiar scrap of ancient song lyrics came to mind: _"Day is done, gone the sun, from the lake, from the hills, from the sky…"_

Mournful bugle notes filled in the gaps around the words. Taps. Used by the United States armed forces in pre-war times, and still used to lay Brotherhood soldiers to their final rest.

In the minds of the Brotherhood, he'd been laid to rest. The Brotherhood had given up on him and cast him out. Only Nora had saved him. She'd saved him, given him the chance to start a new life, and this was how he was repaying her? By sitting alone in a gas station? He'd mourned the loss of Krieg. He'd grieved for Cutler. Why, then, did those losses pale in comparison to the prospect of losing Nora?

The answer was obvious now. Because he loved her with every fiber of his synthetic body. He thought he'd loved the old Nora, but he'd been wrong. This Nora — the broken, ferocious, determined Nora — was his and his alone. He was damned if he'd let her go without a fight.


	12. Chapter 12

A stern voice came out of the darkness. "Stop right there. Hands over your head."

Obediently, Nora lifted her arms up and blinked against the blinding intensity of the bright spotlights that were trained on her.

"It's a little late for a friendly visit. State your intentions," the voice ordered.

 _Friendly?_

She bared her teeth in an approximation of a smile. "I'm here to start a war."

She received a bark of laughter in return. "You and what army?" The red dot of a laser marked a sun-rotted board two feet in front of her. She watched it slowly trace across the bridge, then up onto the toe of her boot.

Another voice, deeper and richer and familiar, interrupted. "Hold on, people. General? Ramirez, open up the gate. She's no raider."

Preston Garvey stepped through the reinforced panels of the junk gate, breaching the overlapping circles of light than shone down on the bridge from above. The doubled up glare of the spotlights created a sharp halo around him, and it suited him. He looked like an angel - she'd always thought so. The goodness and decency that were as much a part of him as the scars on his face emanated out through his velvety brown, gentle eyes. Soft doe eyes, not feral rad stag.

 _Why couldn't you have fallen in love with him instead?_

Nora squeezed her temples between her palms and hummed loudly to silence the taunting voice inside.

"General? You ok?" Preston stepped closer. His taller frame and curled brim of his hat blocked the majority of the light now, sliding her face back into welcome darkness.

 _Avoid. Deflect._

"I haven't been a very good general, Preston. We both know that."

He demurred with a shake of his head. Loyal as always, his face held no condemnation, only acceptance. "You've been busy elsewhere."

She could read between the lines, diplomatic as they were: _"You've been busy with the Brotherhood."_ That very involvement was the reason her own people didn't recognize her.

"I'm done with the Brotherhood. As of this morning, I quit."

Preston's blinked a few times and slung the strap of his laser musket over his shoulder while he digested the information. "I… wow. I wasn't expecting to hear that."

He peered out into the darkness. Nora knew who he was looking for. "What about Paladin —"

Nora shook her head violently to stop him. "No. Don't."

What was she supposed to say? That Danse now hated himself _and_ her? That her heart remained behind her, separated from its body? Nora pressed both hands to her stomach to hold herself together. It wasn't right. None of this was right.

Preston's gaze scrutinized her face, searching for answers. Whatever he saw there made him shift closer to her. He reached out a hand and curled his fingers over her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to say anything right now. Just take it easy."

His voice was hushed and kind now, much like it had been in the beginning, right after Concord, when it had taken him three days to coax her back out of the ruined shell of her home. When he'd helped her dig a grave for each body in the Vault. When he and Codsworth had helped her carry Nate's shrouded corpse to the elevator.

Nora almost reached out to him for comfort — for a hug and a shoulder to cry on — but stopped herself. It wasn't his fault, but Preston wasn't who she needed. The man she needed had followed her here from a deliberate distance, like he couldn't even stand to walk beside her. A subvocal keen rose in the back of her throat, so low that only she could hear it. It vibrated against her teeth and shivered in her marrow.

 _Swallow it down._

She threw her head back into the light, now welcoming the dizzying blindness. "I'm taking the fight to the Institute myself. Are the Minutemen ready to mobilize?"

Preston eyed her for a long, speculative moment, seeing right through her theatrical pose but kindly saying nothing more. He turned his attention to the question and nodded slowly, thoughtfully before answering. "We might be. We have enough settlements onboard for the manpower now, thanks to you." He squeezed her shoulder gently in emphasis.

She could focus on logistics and the warmth of his hand. Neither added any more pain to an already overburdened soul. "What else? Supplies? Caps?"

"Most of the settlers have pipe pistols and homemade armor. Fine against raiders or molerats. Against the Institute?" He shrugged. "With some more supplies and a whole hell of a lot of planning and luck, it's doable, though."

"Good. Supplies can be bought or bartered for. Favors can be called in. There's a Gunner encampment south of Fort Hagen. We can knock those fuckers off for some weapons and armor too." Nora pursed her lips. **"** The big question is do we have a way inside the Institute yet? The signal interceptor trick won't work a second time and Sh — the director deactivated the chip in my Pip-Boy."

Cautious hope lit Preston's features. "Sturges has been picking through the data on the holotape you brought back and he's found some possibilities. It's late, but he's still in his workshop."

Preston angled his head deferentially towards the open gate. Nora began to follow him, then she stopped, hating herself for the weakness that listened for another pair of feet crossing the bridge after her. When she heard none, she let out a shuddering breath and stepped through the rusting gate into Sanctuary Hills.

 _Home sweet home._

* * *

Sturges was kneeling in front of the power armor rack at the back of Mrs. Rosas' carport – now his carport – squinting against the lazy tendrils of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from his mouth. The torque wrench in hand rasped pleasantly at the knee joint of the armor, in tempo with the song warbling out of the nearby radio and Sturges's own tuneless humming.

 _If you'll excuse an expression I use,_

 _I'm in love, I'm in love,_

 _I'm in love, I'm in love,_

 _I'm in love with a wonderful guy!_

Nora felt her face blanch as the lyrics sunk in; she had to suck in a shaky breath to settle the writhing nausea that rose in her throat. Fortunately, Preston had his back to her and didn't notice her adverse reaction. He knocked politely on one of the aluminum braces holding that section of roof up, announcing their presence to the occupant inside.

Sturges craned his head around to look over his shoulder, nodding when he saw the two of them. "Evenin', General. Preston. How can I help y'all?" He gave a final twist of the handle, then disengaged the socket and carefully set it in the open toolbox next to the rack.

Nora slipped past Preston and up onto the oil-stained concrete pad. A quick turn of the volume knob silenced the dreadful song.

"Preston tells me you might've found a way inside the Institute."

Sturges pushed himself off of the floor, absently taking a grease-stained rag from his back pocket and rubbing it over his callused hands. "Has he, now?" he drawled. The rag returned to his pocket and he held out one hand, rocking it side to side in the air to indicate iffiness.

"Place is a rat's nest, worse than the Quincy sewers. Tunnels that lead to nowhere, whole sections that've been abandoned or rebuilt." Sturges exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nose, then flicked his cigarette butt to the concrete and ground it under his heel.

"Reckon I'm about eighty percent of the way through the data. So far, I've found two little entries that look promising. One of 'em mentions the old cooling water tunnels for the reactor. The other said somethin' about a connection with the transit system underneath Cambridge. Need to do s'more research before I can give you a definite answer, though."

He looked from Nora to Preston, then outside the carport as if he expected to see someone else standing there. "If you don't mind me asking, where's the Brotherhood at? With all your people, you must've been able to pick through the data much faster."

Preston gave Sturges a warning shake of his head, but it was too late.

Feeling utterly lost and hopeless, Nora slumped against the workbench behind her and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, both Preston and Sturges were eyeing her with concern.

"They're not my people anymore. None of them are. That fucking data caused too much damage." She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. The pain was a welcome diversion.

"How long will you need to be certain? We need a way inside."

The mechanic shrugged and scratched the back of his neck, carefully avoiding her eyes. "Dunno. Week maybe?"

A week. She had a grace period of one week to mourn her most recent loss. Reeling, she looked out of the carport. Across the street lay the derelict, dark hulk of her house, with its boarded over windows and doors. The house of tomorrow, today.

She should've burned it down, crib and all, and finished what the nuke hadn't been able to. The voices of Preston and Sturges voice faded out, replaced with the roar of a thermonuclear blast wave. The feeling of déjà vu was overwhelming. She and Nate had run out into the street — right there, across from this carport. Panicked, she'd looked back at the house — just like this — wavering for a split second until Nate nudged her back and shouted at her to get moving. The before image still remained and would always remain, burned into the retina of her memory.

Preston gently touched her shoulder, drawing her attention back to the here and now. She had to blink her eyes a few times before his concerned face swam back into view. Was she crying? Nora raised her fingertips to her cheeks, feeling wetness.

 _Yes, she was crying._

"Listen... it's late. You should get some sleep. This can all wait, and things — whatever they are — might look a little better in the morning." The words were again gentle and kind. Caring.

Sturges, whose normally cheerful face was also puckered with worry, nodded agreement and jerked his thumb towards the open doorway. "C'mon, you can crash here. Plenty of room."

Nora knew they were right. She was exhausted and sore and broken. She was too close to the edge. Too close to telling Danse she'd run back to Maxson with her tail tucked between her legs and kill anybody he asked her to.

Too close to setting her old house on fire and walking into it.

Nora shook her head and began to back away. Away from Preston and Sturges, away from her former home and neighborhood, towards the cavernous, lifeless vault on the hill. It was where she belonged. Everything she was had ended there, she just hadn't known it yet. She whirled around to run then, but her boot heel caught in a wide crack in the asphalt of the street outside the house.

Strong arms caught her, breaking her fall. Nora needed those arms so _fucking_ much. She twisted and wriggled until she clung fiercely to their owner, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. Her fingers twined in Danse's hair, forcing his head down until his cheek was pressed against hers.

Nora nuzzled her nose into the hinge of his jaw and inhaled. It might be the last time she'd ever get to hold him like this. "I told you I didn't want any goodbyes. Why didn't you fucking listen to me?" Her breath caught on a sob.

"Nora, look at me."

His voice was stern and rough. She felt his fingers on her upper arms. He was trying to peel her off of him so he could tell her he was leaving. Leaving her, leaving her...

Nora fought against him until he gave up trying to contain her and simply hoisted her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Heartbroken, she crumpled against his chest, listened as he rumbled out a few distant-sounding words to Preston and Sturges.

It was only fair. She deserved it, after all. She'd run away from him, now she had to watch him leave her.

She was rocking in his arms now. The distant roaring in her ears was becoming louder. One eye cracked open, then two. He'd taken her down to the edge of the river, and now he was setting her down on a bench of the rickety old picnic table they'd never quite gotten around to scrapping. Nora clamped her palms around the splintered wood of the seat until she quit wobbling. Under the light of the full moon with the man she loved with all her heart in front of her, this setting would be terribly romantic if she weren't shattered into jagged shards.

Yet...

 _Why was he squatting in front of her? And taking her hands in his?_

Danse sighed and ducked his head for two agonizing heartbeats before looking back up at her. "If you have a moment, I have something… personal I'd like to discuss."

 _This… didn't sound like goodbye. Did it? His voice wasn't harsh, it was … soft?_

"Sure," she whispered.

"Honestly, I don't even know where to begin. There's so much I wanted to say." His brows drew together; gently she eased a hand from his and smoothed the dent between them.

"Take a deep breath. Like this." Nora inhaled with him _one-two-three_ and cupped his cheeks between her palms as they exhaled together.

"Good. Now start from the beginning," she breathed.

Danse nodded once and slid his hands around the backs of her calves to help balance himself. Her thumbs sought the crests of his cheekbones and stroked them.

"I've spent my entire life… or at least what I perceive as my life… following a plan to shape my own future. But since my banishment, I feel lost… almost like I exist without purpose. For the first time since that moment I signed up with the Brotherhood, I don't have all the answers. I don't have a plan and it scares the hell out of me."

Fresh tears came to her eyes at the utter misery present in his face and voice. Nora smoothed the hair back from his temple. No, she wasn't imagining it — he leaned into her touch. Just for a second, but it was a very important second.

"What you've gone through would throw anyone for a loop. You're just confused."

With a suddenness that made her gasp and fly back against the table, Danse launched himself to his feet explosively and started pounding a hard, short path back and forth in front of the table.

"You're damn right I'm confused," he snapped. "I'm a machine who thinks like a human who was trained to hunt the very thing I've become."

He speared his fingers through his hair and kicked a discarded tin can. "Don't you understand? Everything I had, everything I knew is gone. In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside down."

Nora whimpered and hugged herself. _Oh god. She'd been wrong. This was is it. This was goodbye._

Danse's voice softened again, though. His pacing slowed and he came to a halt directly in front of her.

"At least what you had was something tangible… something real." He reached out his hands and clenched them around empty air in bitter emphasis.

"Your husband, your son… they were living, breathing humans who loved and cared for you. Those sons of bitches who created me couldn't even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents. I don't know how much of my past is artificial and how much is real. Can you even imagine that? I started out as nothing, and I've ended up as nothing… and I don't know what the hell to do about it."

His shoulders folded inward and his eyes slid shut. In a flash of clarity, she realized he was asking for help. He was asking for _her_ help.

"Didn't I already convince you that giving up was a mistake?" she asked.

For a few seconds, she thought she hadn't spoken loud enough for him to hear against the background white noise of the river. Then Danse sighed and opened his eyes.

"You did. I suppose you're right." One of his shoulders rolled. "Maybe I'm just missing the point. My life's starting over and I need to come to terms with everything I've lost and everything I've gained. Which includes something important you've made me realize."

Once again, Danse sank to his haunches in front of her and engulfed her small hands in his large ones.

"I don't know if it's an anomaly in my programming. After all I'm not really human. But whatever it is, I can't deny that I'm feeling closer to you than anyone else I've ever met," he said earnestly.

She started trembling at that, hard enough for him to frown at her with concern. Nora let herself fall forward, knowing he'd catch her. And he did. He drew her hands up to his shoulders and wrapped his arms around her securely.

"You're not saying goodbye, are you?" she whispered into his neck. "You're not."

He shook his head and eased her back upright. "No. That's not what I'm trying to say. I..."

His mouth worked and for a breathless moment, she thought… she _hoped_ … She nearly whimpered again when he ended up shaking his head instead and slid his gaze away.

He wasn't saying goodbye. He was trying to say something else. _Something else, something else…_

Nora kneaded his shoulders. "I'm right here. What are you trying to tell me?" The laugh that shivered out of her sounded half-crazed, because it was. Her heart was racing a million beats per minute. No, per second.

"No cliffhangers. Please. My heart can't take it."

The corner of his mouth quirked at that. Danse took a breath deep enough to fully expand his rib cage and blew it back out.

"This is difficult. Please bear with me." He paused and waited until she nodded before continuing: "Due to my position as your commanding officer, it was … advisable for me to remain as impersonal as possible. I don't think that's possible anymore. If anything positive comes from my banishment, it's the fact that I have maneuverability now. The freedom to follow paths that were previously inaccessible. I don't see any reason not to take them."

He shrugged. "I can't calculate any variable that doesn't lead straight to you. What I'm saying is… well, I think I'm in love with you."


End file.
